Man's Best Friend
by silver ruffian
Summary: Varied chapters, ranging from ficlets, drabbles, hurt/comfort, humor, or angst. The inanimate objects in Dean and Sam Winchester's lives have thoughts of their own. It's Toy Story, Winchester style. Up now: Mr. Fizzles realizes that there comes a time when a sock must take matters into its own hand.
1. Dean and Sam

_**A/N:**_ No word count this time, folks.

_**Summary:**_ This is the sequel (kinda) of _evil with a small e_. Dean likes to smash things with Jerry, his trusty crowbar. Sam's concerned. VERY concerned. I get the feeling this is not the last I've heard from Dean and Jerry. Will continue this and see how far I get.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

"You named your sawed off too," Sam says hours later.

"What? No. No, I didn't…I…"

"Maybe it was the meds, but you talked nonstop in your sleep. You didn't name your shotgun Angelina?"

"Don't talk about her like that!"

"What? All I said was her name."

"You got that bitchface in your voice. I feel like you're judging me."

"Judging you? Okay. You wanna talk about your feelings, Dean?"

"Hell no, Dr. Phil."

Sam stands there and stares at his brother so intently it starts feeling weird and damned awkward. Dean's still pale, so much so his freckles look like grains of brown sand scattered over a white tablecloth. Breathing's better, but he's still wheezing a little.

Dean bristles when Sam leans down, puts his hand to Dean's forehead. "Quit feelin' me up, you perv. 'm not sick."

"Uh huh. Yeah."

Sam goes back to the kitchen, and within minutes he puts another bowl of chicken noodle soup down on a tray on Dean's lap. Dean's eyeroll is classic, but he picks up the spoon and starts eating.

Sam feels that heaviness in his own chest loosen up, just a bit.

This is better. A hell of a lot better. Dean didn't eat much before. Orange juice, maybe, clear soda with the bubbles stirred out of it. He always seems younger when he's sick, like his guard's down, and that macho man swagger and smartass mask is melted away by the fever in his skin.

Sam plumps the pillows up behind Dean, and that's when he sees Jerry's curved handle poking out from under the blankets.

Sam looks at the crowbar.

Dean stops, wide-eyed, a spoonful of soup in mid-air. The spoon wobbles a little.

"Is it okay if I put Jerry back in the trunk?" Sam says quietly.

Dean blinks. He looks at Sam, and then he looks at Jerry.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Okay." Sam shrugs into his jacket, then walks over and picks Jerry up. "Finish your soup. I'll be right back."

* * *

The snow's still piled high outside. No more snow in the forecast, though. It'll be another four days at the most before they can leave. Sam decides to make it another week. By that time Dean will be better, and he'll be climbing the walls, wanting to leave.

Sam puts Jerry in the trunk, almost gently. He doesn't know why.

Bobby answers his phone on the third ring. Good. Sam wants to talk to a live human.

"I mean, Bobby, he thought the damn alarm clock was possessed."

Sam can almost see Bobby shrug over the phone. "You never know, Sam. Maybe it was."

"What?"

"I'm just saying. Sometimes inanimate objects have bad vibes. I tell you, I've been up to that cabin lots of times and I never saw an alarm clock. I don't even remember one being there. Even if Dean did go psychotic, at least he didn't bash _your_ head in."

Sam chuckles. "Bet Jerry would have liked that."

"Who's Jerry?"

"Uh…the crowbar."

"He named the crowbar Jerry?"

"That's right."

"Huh. Well, other than that slight lapse from reality, how's your idjit brother?"

"Better. He's got an appetite now. After he killed the clock and the nightstand Dean grinned at me and staggered off to bed. With Jerry."

Bobby snorts.

Sam chuckles too. First laugh he's had in four days, and it feels good.

* * *

Chapter 2 is next. Jerry speaks his piece.


	2. Jerry

_**A/N:**_ The POV in this chapter is none other than the Sultan of Swat himself, Jerry the crowbar. He's baacckk! The views and opinions expressed in this chapter are Jerry's, and Jerry's alone.

* * *

Dean's my boy.

I take care of my boy. _Always._

_What?_ You think you fleshies are the only ones who can think? Just goes to show how limited you guys are.

And what did you think he was gonna name me? _Steve?_

That's a pansy name.

I've seen some of those fancy schmancy crowbars, the ones with the rubber handles.

_Posers._

I'm curved at one end and flat at the other. I'm built for action from end to end, and I don't care how that sounds. You humans have your minds in the gutter most of the time anyway.

My kid doesn't need rubber grips. Dean gets the job_ done_, no matter what.

The only time I felt kinda bad was after the car crash, after John died, when Dean decided to smash the hell outta the Impala. Yeah, that was me he was using. Awkward doesn't even begin to describe that.

Me and the old girl go way back, with John. He bought her one day, and I was one of the first tools he put in her trunk, way before either of the boys were born.

I remember the day big John gave me and the Impala over to the kid. John's all big and dark and imposing as he walked around the car. He ran his fingertips all over her frame, and when he got to the trunk he put his palm flat on the lid.

"Take care of my boy, you hear me?" John whispered fiercely. "You take good care of him now."

Me and the girl listened. We do our best.

It's been a wild time out here on the road.

There was this fight we were in up in Montana. Butte, I think it was. Dean took these yahoos' money playing pool and they decided to get it back. I came in on the tail end of it. By the time the five brainiacs decided to man up and follow Dean outside to whip his ass he had the Impala's trunk open.

I knew it was show time the moment he touched me.

Dean smiled, tossed me to the dude in the front and what did Dumbass do?

He caught me. With both hands.

If I had a mouth I woulda busted a gut laughing.

Dean stepped in close, started pounding on the sucker, and Dumbass still held onto me. They don't breed 'em for brains in that part of the country, do they?

It was glorious to see Dean kicking all their candy asses.

I've been blessed with simple prayers, doused in holy water, sprinkled with salt. Dean even used me as a torch once, wrapped one of his t shirts around my head and lit me up with lighter fluid.

At the time I did wonder why the hell he shoplifted those two Ove Gloves from that drugstore._ Duh._

I didn't like _that_ job so much. Burned fugly flesh is a bitch to clean off.

Dean made it up to me later, though. I got the full treatment, Rustoleum, the whole bit.

He apologized to me, too. So it's_ all_ good. Always _has_ been, always _will_ be.

Next time Dean took me out of the trunk we bashed this ghoul's head in.

Sweet.

I love smashing stuff. It's what I do, you know? Glass, metal, fugs, doors, whatever.

And that Sam kid? He's okay. I know Dean would probably fall apart if something ever happened to him, so I keep an eye out for the brat too.

He's a little too girly for me, though. All that sensitivity stuff. Yeech. Getting hit in the forehead with that clock bell was probably good for him. Toughen him up.

_What?_ Hell, it didn't kill him.

Besides, I know something Sam doesn't think anyone knows.

He named his duffel Frances.

Whenever Sam loads him into the trunk we always get an earful of all that emo stuff.

Geez. Why am I _not_ surprised?

* * *

Well, until next time. Drop me a line and let me know what you think. Thanks!


	3. Doctor Phil Strikes Again

The first thing Dean does as he steps out of the cabin ten days later is do an imitation of Mel Gibson as William Wallace.

"FFREEEDOMMM!" Dean bellows, as he victoriously pumps a fist into the air. Dean's voice cracks on the high note, and he wheezes a little at the end. Sam's tempted to turn right back around and refuse to leave the cabin for a couple more days, at least, but Dean's color is good, and he's got that old sparkle in his eyes again. He's been a handful besides, bitching about everything.

Sam's not surprised when Dean wordlessly flips him the car keys and heads for the passenger side.

* * *

Sam takes one look at what's on Dean's plate and frowns. "Dude, you need a vegetable."

Dean smirks. "I got one. I got two. Lettuce and pickle." He peers happily at the oversized hamburger on his plate. "Pickles are really a fruit. But some egghead thought it sounded better as a vegetable. And lettuce is otherwise known as _Lactuca sativa_, a biennial plant of the daisy family _Asteraceae_." Dean picks up a French fry and pops it into his mouth. "Otherwise known as a leaf vegetable to you civilians."

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it with a snap. _Huh._

"Dude, I just spent the last two weeks puking clear soda and chicken noodle soup. I deserve some real food." Dean grips the burger with both hands, takes a huge bite out of the sandwich and closes his eyes in ecstasy as he chews.

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean cracks one eye open.

"What?" Dean says warily. He recognizes the tone.

"Does Jerry like me?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Does Jerry like me?"

"You gettin' all Doctor Phil on me now? Trying to see if I have any hidden issues with you. Right?"

Sam grins a little. "Right. You nailed it. Been watching Oprah again, huh?"

Dean pinks up slightly. "No. Hell no!"

"Uh huh. Hell no he doesn't like me or hell no you haven't watched Oprah?"

Dean takes another mouthful of burger. "Can't talk now," he mumbles. "Eating."

They reach Bobby's place five hours later. Bobby doesn't say much, just hugs each brother in turn. He steps back from Dean and quirks an eyebrow at him. "My house is a demon alarm clock free zone, Dean, so your friend Jerry can stay outside."

Sam has this innocent, puppy dog look pasted on his face when Dean glares at him. "What? Dude, I was worried about you!"

"Yeah, I bet you were."

Sam shampoos his hair later on. Dean switches the bottles and Sam uses white glue instead.

"Bring it on, Sparky," Dean growls cheerfully.

The prank war is _on_.


	4. Frances

_**POV:**_ Frances. Sammy's duffel bag.

What? Don't look at me like that!

* * *

I hate this life.

It's not the years so much. That's not what puts wear and tear on you. It's the mileage.

Well, that and being around awful people like Sam's brother Dean.

He's packed me a couple of times. Or should I say over packed me. He'll throw everything in me, and then toss me in the trunk. Careless. Just rude and careless.

I hate Dean. He smells like gunpowder and salt and fast food grease.

Sam worries about that ape brother of his. A lot. I don't know why. I didn't know the father, but if he was anything like that Dean it's no wonder these Winchesters are so twisted.

I loved Stanford. Sam bought me the third year he was there. The smell and weight of all those books. Being in one place for years. Even the air smelled smarter in that place.

That poor Jessica girl…I was one of the few things that didn't burn when she died. I smelled of smoke and I really did think that Sam was going to get rid of me.

But he didn't.

He cleaned me up, and when he left he took me with him.

Why'd Sam name me Frances? Why not? It's a good name. Normal. Steady and classy.

Not like Jerry. Hmph. What kind of name is _that_, anyway?

That crowbar? He belongs to the brother. So does that sawed off shotgun, Angelina. I'm not on speaking terms with the rest of those thugs in the armory. They seem to follow Jerry's lead. They won't give me the time of day when Sam puts me in the trunk. It's dark in there, and sometimes it's cold or hot. I don't like weather extemes. It's bad for my fabric, makes my zippers ache.

Sometimes I swear that Dean drives like a maniac and hits all those potholes just to annoy me.

Sam has this thing he does with his brother. It's called a bitchface, I think. Dean laughs at it sometimes. He's such an insensitive jerk, I don't see why Sam puts up with him. You can't openly express your feelings, not with this bunch. They do a lot of name-calling, especially that Jerry.

I'm not over sensitive. I get a little emo sometimes, that's all. I make my feelings known to the others, for what little good it does. They think they're so special, just because metal lasts longer. And just in case you're wondering, I know the Impala hates me too.

I hope they all rust. Rust, I say.

No one listens to me. I get lonely sometimes, with no one to talk to.

And that Angelina is a slut.

* * *

TBC


	5. The Impala

_**A/N:**_ Thanks to everyone who had read and reviewed so far. I really really appreciate it! First up this time is the Impala.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

I'm Dean's girl. His_ main_ girl. Don't pay any attention to what any of the others say. We're one big family on the road, and some of us are not so happy.

Did he name me? Yes, he did.

Am I going to tell you? _Hell no._

Dean's taken real good care of me through the years. Never mind that time John barked at him about me rusting out: "If I'd known you weren't gonna take care of the car I never would have given it to you."

Hmph. I loved Big John, still do, but he could be a clueless idiot sometimes.

First time I saw Dean was at that used car lot back in Lawrence, years before he was born. Sounds weird, huh? I don't try to figure this stuff out, I just accept it and move on. I knew he was John's kid from the moment I laid eyes on him, all grown up and wearing that battered leather coat. It was John's coat, but John didn't know it yet.

Later on, when Dean made his "official" entrance into the family, it was fun watching him, especially when he started crawling. Whenever he was outside in the yard, he'd always head in my direction. Scared the hell outta his folks the first couple times he did that.

The times John and Mary found Dean curled up in the front seat? That was me. I opened my door for him. He'd climb in and take a nap on the driver's side. We belonged to each other even then, and we both knew it.

Worst days? I've had my share. Getting nailed by that damn semi was one of them. Way before that? Back in Lawrence, the night Mary Winchester died. John sat on my hood, with Sam and Dean in his arms. I felt like bawling enough for all of us. After Mary died I tried my best to make it easy on him. It was easy because he'd kept me in perfect condition up until then. I didn't break down, kept the maintenance down to a minimum. Man had enough on his mind.

Worst day after that? John dying. Dean fixed me afterwards. Thing is, at the time I felt I didn't deserve to be fixed. Dean could have stuck me in a corner of Singer's Salvage Yard, thrown a tarp over me, and I would have been satisfied. He never gave up on me. Maybe he should have.

Why do I feel that way? 'cause I fucked up, that's why. Never should have allowed that semi to get that close. I don't care if Satan himself had been driving the damn thing. I was distracted, what with John bitching at Sam for not shooting him with the Colt, and Dean dying in the back seat.

Yeah, that's right. I could feel the life draining out of him. He was all bloody, torn up inside, and I really didn't like that glassy, vacant look in his eyes. He was already looking down that long dark tunnel, at the light.

One of the happiest days of my life? When John gave me to Dean. And when the boys went on the road together, after Stanford. I did feel sorry for that Jessica, Sam's girlfriend. She didn't deserve that.

Now speaking of Sam, I gotta say right now that I like the kid. Always have. Even when he was little, I could practically hear the wheels turning in that boy's head. I know that some of the people in our merry little group think that just because I consider Sam's Frances an asshole, that, by extension, I can't stand Sam. That's not true. Sam has his moments. We all do.

Dean smashing the hell out of me with Jerry? Hey, I forgave them both. Jerry apologized to me afterwards. He's not as hard as he thinks he is. And Dean? He left me alone for a day, and then he came out , sat down on the ground next to me, put his hand on my side and started crying. His shoulders shook, and he kept saying he was sorry, over and over again.

He's only human. And I don't hold grudges.

Well, come to think of it, I _do_.

That damn 'shifter in St. Louis. Hey, I didn't know, all right? He was good. Too good. If I'd known he wasn't Dean, I would have run him over. Repeatedly.

Missouri Moseley? Can't stand her. Told my boy he was a "goofy looking kid" when he was younger. She had a pick on him when we went back to Lawrence that time. Haven't seen her lately, and that's just as well.

Worst part of the job? Being separated from the boys. I've been towed, impounded, you name it. It's happened often enough. And Dean always comes for me. Each and every damn time.

He makes it up to me, tells me I'm special. I get pampered with premium oil, washed and waxed by hand. It's nice to be wanted and needed like that.

And don't ask me about the times Dean's entertained some young lady in the back seat. I know nothing, I saw nothing.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

* * *

Next up: Dean's shotgun, Angelina

* * *


	6. Angelina

_**A/N #1:**_ Angelina's thoughts and opinions do not reflect those of the author, so don't flame me. I'll just laugh at you, anyway.

_**A/N #2:**_ Phoebe, I blame you for part of this. You know why. Don't look innocent. You too, wildwolffree17. And crytonomicon63. Equal blame!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit. Huh.

And now, without further ado, hereee's Angelina!

* * *

Hmmmm…I just _love_ the feel of Dean's hand around my stock. That part of me is solid walnut.

And he holds me just right.

Jealous? Too bad.

We were made for each other. A perfect fit either way. And did I mention that that wide silver ring of his feels good when he touches me?

It does. I purr.

Dean loves me. I know he does. I've been places with him nobody else has. I'm easy to hide, and when he tucks me underneath his coat, against his side, his body heat warms me up from my stock to my barrel. I'm always ready to go to work.

I can handle regular loads, and rock salt. I get a kick out of the shocked looks on those ghosts and fuglies when Dean takes me out, aims, and pulls my trigger.

You can take _that _any way you want to.

When he cleans all the weapons, I don't get bent out of shape if he saves me for last. I'm the best, and I know it. Sometimes he cleans me first. He can't keep his hands off me.

Here's the visual: Dean sitting in the middle of his bed, surrounded by cleaning supplies, sharpening stones, brushes, and just about every blade and weapon you could ever think of. He's got this cute way of frowning, that slight wrinkle between his eyes as he concentrates.

That gets me warm and tingly.

He's got very, very talented fingers. You human females don't appreciate that, but I don't pay any attention to those other women Dean's spent the night with. A man has needs, and besides, Dean always comes back to me.

Always.

That Cassie Robinson? She didn't share the life, she never understood. He told her the truth of what we do, and she couldn't take it. Good riddance. He didn't need her.

I really didn't want to go back and help her when she called that time, but where Dean goes, I go. I've never jammed on him. No way I'd ever let that happen. Of course, when all else fails, and we're in a tight spot, sometimes Dean uses me to smash the fugly in the head.

I don't like_ that_ so much. Hitting things is Jerry's department.

Blowing things apart is mine.

Lately I get to ride up front most of the time. Dean tucks me down underneath the bench seat, on the driver's side, or in that leather sheath he attached to the bench seat, between the seat and the door. Good thing too. It's gotten to the point that I hate riding in the trunk.

Frances is back there. God, I can't stand him.

He whines. All the damn time. Who would have figured all that hot air would come out of a cloth bag? So he was at Stanford with Sam? So what?

Big damn college boys. Does that make him better than everyone else?

Besides, he hates Dean. He said he does. That's not too bright when you think of it. Most of us back here have been with Dean longer, except for Jerry.

Jerry's in the trunk most of the time, which is good. So are Tony and Dom. I like them.

One time Frances tried to snuggle up against me after Sam put him in the trunk. Tried to pretend that he rolled over into my space because Dean was driving too fast. I aimed my barrel at him and the sonofabitch rolled back quick the other way. I wasn't loaded at the time, but dumbass was too stupid to realize that.

Sometimes we catch a break when Sam puts Frances in the back bench instead of the trunk. It's a party back there then. Even the knives join in. I can't remember the name of that long curved knife Sam has. He seems…interesting. Too bad he can't come over to our side.

I feel sorry for Maxine too. She's a Taurus PT92. She belongs to Sam. She seems nice enough. Sometimes I wonder how she stands it, being cooped up inside that idiot Frances.

I prefer not to say too much when it comes to Sam. I mean, he's nice and all, if you like that sort of thing, but he's not my type. Compared to Dean, Sam's just a little boy. I've had enough emo to last a lifetime, believe me. We live, and then we die. Enough with the angst already!

Tell you one thing: I did feel like pistol-whipping Sam's Sasquatch ass after we left Roosevelt Asylum. He tried to play it off, tried to pretend that he didn't mean all those hurtful things he said to Dean.

And then the dumb bastard shot Dean with his shotgun. With rock salt.

We hit the ground hard, and I nearly lost it when Dean said, "You hate me that much? You think you can kill your own brother? Then go ahead, pull the trigger, do it!"

If I had a mouth, I would have been growling and snarling. I wanted to kill Sam right then and there.

Sam can be a bitch sometimes. "I didn't mean it." Yeah. Right.

That shotgun of his. It's a 12 gauge, with a pistol grip. I don't like him either. He's the one Sam used to shoot Dean in the chest with rock salt, so you better believe that one better keep a low profile around the rest of us.

Bastard.

Oh, and by the way, there is absolutely no truth to that rumor that's going around that Dean loves Clint more than me. Clint is Dean's Colt 1911, and he's been in the trunk just like the rest of us at times.

Frances started that rumor. I just know he did.

Next time he tries to roll over on top of me I'm going to tear him a new one.

And not in a good way, either.

* * *

It suddenly occurred to me that since Frances is a boy maybe his name should be spelled with an i instead of an e. Oh well. Since I don't like him either, I'm not gonna change it. He's nothing but a big girl, anyway.

Next up, in no particular order: Sam's laptop, Dean's long blade, Jack, Clint, Charlie, Maxine and Tony and Dom, two guns with a history -- can you say New York crime families, boys and girls? John's journal might even let us know what's on his, ah, hers, dang,_ its_ mind.


	7. Tony and Dom

_**A/N:**_ Clint, Dean's Colt 1911, was up next, but Tony and Dom muscled their way up to the front. You wanna be the one to tell them _no_? Didn't think so.

_**Disclaimer:**_ You know the drill. I don't own Supernatural, damn it. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit. There, I've said it and I feel better for it. Not.

* * *

Me and Dom here, we never thought we'd end up doing _this_. Hunting spooks and demons, for God's sake. It's a long way from New York.

Dom don't say very much, so I guess it's up to me to speak our peace. What did we do up in the Big Apple? We were in the export business. Yeah, that's right. Other that that I'm not saying nothin'. Dom ain't either. We may not be in the life anymore, but we're don't rat out our friends and former co-workers.

This hunter's gig? We never had it so good. This Dean kid is a fanatic about cleaning his weapons. Once a week normally. More than that if he used us.

That Sam kid? Yeah, we know that some of the others in the trunk have a beef against him. It's all good. Me and Dom are kinda fond of him. Sammy reminds us of this lawyer Vinnie the Horse retained one time for some, ah, legal matters. That kid looked all baby-faced, too, but he was a shark in the courtroom. Got Vinnie off free and clear, even though they had videotape of the alleged crime in progress.

Well, geez, where are my manners. I'm a twelve gauge, and … what?

Oh.

Don't ask me for any more details, all right? Dom's givin' me the fish eye as it is. I can tell he's already thinkin' I've said too much. I'll keep this short, okay?

Hunting monsters and demons. What the hell. Didn't believe it the first time Dean started talking about it, still didn't believe it when he pointed me and Dom at this hairy looking thing with teeth and claws. We cut loose, unloaded on the damn thing quick, fast, and in a hurry, lemme tell ya. Fido was pissed and looked like he'd use us for toothpicks after he munched on the kid.

Dean dropped him like a real bad habit. Let me put if this way: if Dean ever gets tired of "saving people, hunting things" he could really rack up working for some of the families upstate. Kid's a machine, pure and simple. Velvety smooth.

I know some people. Still got plenty of connections up there.

That Angelina chick. _Wheew._ She's high maintenance. Got a_ very_ nice stock on her. She's seen me looking at her. Jerry? Big lug reminds me of Luca the Bull. Big, solid, and dependable.

That Frances? Bit too high strung for my tastes. Me and Dom gonna keep an eye on him. He's got a big mouth.

Might have to arrange for him to sleep with the fishes.

Anything else you wanna know, I'm gonna have to take the fifth.

* * *

Next: Clint.

* * *


	8. Clint and Jack

/N: And now it's time to meet Clint. And Jack.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit. So there.

* * *

_**POV: Clint**_

First time I laid eyes on Dean it was love at first sight.

Both ways.

Oh. Crap.

Did I say that out loud? Crap!

Don't get the wrong idea. We're not gay for each other or anything like that.

Uh, you…you have to give me a minute, okay? Talk to Jack. Yeah. That's it……

_Damn it, I can't believe I said that out loud…_

_

* * *

__**POV: Jack**_

What the hell. Dude?

Um…okay.

Name's Jack. Dean named me after that Jack Nicholson fella. Said the edge of my blade was wicked sharp like Nicholson's sense of humor. I don't have one, but I get it anyway. My handle was plain at first. Next thing I knew Dean put this leather covering with black and red diamonds on my handle. Said it made my grip better. Black because I'm badass, red for protection.

I got style now.

I love to slice and dice stuff. It's what I was made to do. I look like one'a them samurai swords, but I'm not curved. I'm straight. I was in the trunk when his Dad gave him the Impala.

Dean and I have sliced and diced zombies, ghouls, black dogs, you name it. If it bleeds, it dies, especially if _we_ have anything to say about it.

My very first kill with Dean? Lopped off this witch's head off up in Utah. Now what is a Chinese water witch doing up in Salt Lake City? Beats the hell outta me. She'd staked out this municipal swimming pool as her own personal hunting grounds. Body count was eighteen by the time we showed up that summer. We snuck into the place after closing, and she tried to sneak up on Dean. He heard her coming, drew me out from under his jacket, turned around and we went to work.

I get blessed regularly. We all do. That extra little bit doesn't hurt.

Uh…about Clint…I get along okay with the folks in the armory. I think that they're a little more high-strung than knives are because they have moving parts. You don't believe me? Ask one of them if they ever jammed while Dean was out on a hunt with them.

That's the cardinal sin among them. To them there's no excuse. I kinda doubt that would happen anyway, especially with the way Dean takes care of them. Doesn't stop them from being obsessive about it.

Us knives? We never jam up. _Never._ Run us over a sharpening stone a few times and we're ready, willing and able twenty four seven. Might be one reason why me and Jerry get along so well. We're low maintenance.

Okay, Clint's back. Remember what I said, will ya? High strung…

* * *

_**POV: Clint**_

Uh, can we start over? Okay.

I'm a Colt 1911 A1 .45 caliber semi-automatic. Seven 7-round magazine capacity, full magazine and I _always_ keep one extra in the chamber. Reason for that is you never know when some additional evil sonofabitches are gonna pop up and need killing.

I'm not what you expected, huh? Yeah, I know. Dean coulda chosen any other gun, but he chose _me_. I'm nickel plated. I've been called a "tricked out pimp gun", whatever the hell that means. I got ivory handles and decorative engraving. So what? It ain't bragging if you can do it.

I'm on a mission, and my mission is to support and protect the lives of Dean and Sam Winchester, and everyone else in our party. And I mean everyone else, including certain snot-nosed duffel bags who think they're better than anyone else just because they went to some high-seddity college on the West Coast and toted school books around inside them for over a year.

Yeah, Frances, I got your "tricked out pimp gun" right here, punk.

Okay. I'm fine._ Really._

I fit Dean's hand perfectly, just like a damn glove. Got named after that Eastwood actor, but I guess you know that already. I'm Dean's main gun. His primary. Angelina's nice and all, but she's a little too bulky. Dean's stripped down to his t shirt and jeans and he still managed to hide me in his back or side waistband.

That always feels nice. I love it when Dean slides me in all tight and snug against his skin.

What? I didn't mean to say that. It's not like it sounds....

Ah, I mean, we got the job done those times. Saved people. Killed fuglies. That's what we do, and we do it damn well.

What, you wanna hear about Dean and me? Uh, we work well together. Like I said, perfect fit.

There isn't any more than…

All right, all right!

_Damn._

When his heart was damaged I thought I was gonna lose him, okay? He looked so damn pale and weak and he didn't pick me up, not once, not until he was better. He had these dark circles under his eyes, and he_ wheezed_, which scared the living hell outta me.

Dean Winchester does not _wheeze_, you hear me?

I was too heavy for him to even lift me, and I would have given anything to heal him. Couldn't stand seeing him like that.

Sam's okay in my book. He got Dean to that faith healer, that LeGrange dude, in time. Sam's a little prissy, but his heart's in the right place. That more than made up for that bit later with the shotgun and the rock salt in Roosevelt Asylum. I don't have time to carry a grudge.

What, you want _more_ details? Kinda nosy, aren't ya?

You don't have a need to know. All you do need to know is that when we go out hunting, I will do everything in my power to make sure that the brothers come out of it alive.

I don't have time for this emo crap. What good does it do anyway?

I'm outta here.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	9. the Brain

_**Disclaimer:**_ You know the drill: I don't own Supernatural, yadda yadda yadda.

And now, Sam's laptop.

* * *

Kneel before me, puny humans! I am the source from which all knowledge flows! Kneel!

Mmbbbwahhhhhhh!

Heee, what can I say. I like jokes.

Feels kinda funny-peculiar talking to ya'll like this, but here goes.

I'm the second laptop the boys have had. First one got totaled when that semi nailed the Impala. I'm glad I missed that event, thank you very damn much. Just the idea of colliding with all those tons of twisted metal and steel makes my motherboard ache.

And not in a _good_ way, either.

The name Sam gave me is personal and private, and I'm keeping that bit of information for myself. Names have power, and I'm keeping mine. Some of these other folks told you what their names are, and that's fine for them.

_Suckers._

You may call me the Brain if you want. Got that one from Dean. According to him Sam's Pinky.

I'm the go-to guy for research, but it's not just about work. Sam uses me a lot of times to email his old college buddies. He keeps tabs on Jessica's family. Anyway, from what I understand the first laptop was Dean's. Had Deadhead stickers on it, remember?

I'm Sam's._ Definitely_ Sam's. You oughta see that kid when he gets possessive about "his stuff." It's quite a sight to see: six feet four and he gets that bitchface. Makes me feel kinda warm all over 'cause he's talking about me. You wanna see Sam Winchester wibble? Just have the power go out or there's no internet service.

First time I saw Sam I figured he was in school. Some college kid, right? After he got me home he started pulling up all the information he could about Reapers after he and his brother got out of the hospital. Didn't think much of it.

And then the weirdness really started.

Rakshashas, killer clowns, demons, all manner of supernatural critter, one after another. I'm usually pretty quick on the uptake, but I couldn't believe half the stuff he was researching. I figured we weren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. Whenever Sam sits down in front of me with that intense look on his face I just know we're in for a marathon research session.

I love this life! Damn it, I just LOVE it!

Sorry, Didn't mean to squee on you like that.

I don't like to play _too_ many jokes. I know some of my brethren just love that kinda thing, like slowing ye old processor down, or forgetting to save this document or that document, even though the human swears up and down he or she saved it. Hey, chances are you probably did hit 'save', and your desktop or laptop decided to liven things up.

_Oops._ Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned_ that_.

Oh well. It's not like the PC police are gonna come after me. I'm riding around with two badass hunters and a trunk full of weapons, remember?

Anyway, there's a thin margin for error in this line of work, and I never would forgive myself if either of the boys ever got hurt because I was fooling around.

Wanna know the main difference between the brothers, research-wise?

Sam absorbs everything. I mean _every damn thing_. Sam never knows what might be useful. He scares the hell outta me sometimes.

Dean? He's more selective. It goes like this with him: if he sees something, first thing he thinks is, is this something I should hunt, or something I should be interested in? If the answer's _no_, he drops it and goes on to something else. If the answer's _yes_, he finds out _everything_ he can about the subject.

Dean's a geek too. Yep, I said it. Mr. Macho is just as big a geek as his brother is. Don't look at me like that. Hell, everybody in the Impala knows.

I got the best of two worlds right here. And when Dean's in the mood for porn, well, I gotta tell you, there is more porn in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.

I've seen things.

_Lots _of things.

One thing though, and I thought I'd clear this up: Dean's just as good researching as Sam is. Yeah, I know Dean does that tough guy, shallow act, but just think about this: a hunter who sucks at research is gonna wind up being a stone cold _dead_ hunter quick, fast and in a hurry. Just thought I'd pass _that _bit of information along.

For a while there Sam researched the hell out of everything he could pull up on God and angels, and not just for jobs, either. It was some heavy duty stuff.

He hasn't done that lately._ Huh._

Sometimes Dean goes on those real estate sites. You know the ones that show all those houses for sale? He gets real quiet right around the time his Mom died. November 2nd, each and every damn year.

And I'm not supposed to mention this either, but Sam does porn too. He looks at Dean's browsing history. _Busty Asian Beauties_ is only the start, believe me.

Damn. I did it again.

You think I'm gonna tell you something even more personal about the boys? Well, I _could_, but then I'd have to kill ya.

What? I'm _not _joking.

* * *

Who's next? Ah, maybe Maxine, Sam's gun. The grass is _always_ greener in the other guy's duffle bag.


	10. Maxine

_**A/N:**_ Got up this morning and Maxine insisted on being first. I never argue with a loaded handgun. Also, a very big thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, and even lurked. I'm glad you like this series! I don't know where in the hell half this stuff is coming from.

* * *

Sam's got really big hands, but a firm grip. I can really appreciate that. I'm a Taurus PT92, and I've been with Sam for some time now. I was the only gun he brought with him when he left home. That was a sad time. A lot of yelling and screaming at first, from his father.

He was scared. The father, I mean. I could sense it, but Sam couldn't, and I still wonder why. He stuck his chin out, packed his bags, and stormed out of the house.

Just like that.

His brother was scared, too, but he gave Sam money and a ride to the bus station. That surprised me. I thought Dean would rant and rave, but he didn't. He had this hurt look in his eyes, even though he was cracking jokes the whole time.

Sam didn't see that either.

Dean's not so bad. He's handled me a couple of times. Fired me, I mean.

Nobody else knows this, and I didn't mention it, but after Jessica died Sam thought about using me.

_On himself._

Humans think funny things sometimes. It's that flesh part, you know? You got all those chemicals and electricity inside you, and when you're under stress you think funny things. I don't mean funny-haha, I mean funny-peculiar. And sometimes the things you think about will mess you up permanently if you act on it for that one brief, stupid moment.

Sam thought about it. Thought about joining Jessica. Dean was out getting food, a couple of days before the funeral, and Sam sat on the bed with me in his hand. He looked at me, and he thought about putting me in his mouth and pulling the trigger. I could feel it in his skin, all that sadness and grief. He dreamed about her dying, but he didn't mention it. Why would he. It was just a dream, right?

No way in hell I was gonna let him kill himself. I jammed myself. It hurt like hell, and I was sore for days afterwards, but I would not have fired, no matter how many times he pulled the trigger.

Sam sat there, and bless his heart, the moment passed. He got angry then, mad about Jess being taken from him. The moment passed, and after the funeral we went back on the road with Dean.

I like it out here. As long as I'm with Sam, it's all right.

It's hard sometimes, y'know? Sometimes I can't hear myself think. Frances talks all the time. He complains, really, about everything. Sam's big brother Dean, mostly. I just don't see why everyone can't just get along.

Frances is an idiot anyway. I know he sees the way the others look at him. I know how it could be if he would just shut the hell up.

Or if he wasn't around anymore.

One time Sam slipped me into the trunk by myself. It was quiet at first, but then they started talking to me.

I was shocked.

Angelina was first. She's a glamour girl. I always feel plain next to her. Haven't had much to say to Clint. I think he's Dean's favorite gun, but I never would tell Angelina that.

I like to talk sometimes. I mean, it's loud enough when we're working. When I'm not working I would love to have a little peace and quiet.

Sam put me back in the duffel after that, and Frances gave me the silent treatment.

I don't care.

I like Angelina. Jerry's not so bad. That Tony and Dom? Tony's like, "Hey, baby, wanna pull my trigger?" Dom just rolled his eyes. When he said 'Hi' to me he was so quiet I could barely hear him.

Dom's shy. I like him. A lot.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ There's another short chapter right after this one.

* * *


	11. Alas, poor Frances

"SAMM!!"

"What?"

"Dude. What the hell is this big damn fish doin' in the trunk? And why is the strap of your duffle bag wrapped around the damn thing?"

"Huh? What? I didn't put that in there. Hey, my stuff's still here, but my duffel's gone!"

"…"

"Dean! Dude, don't look at me like that. I didn't _do_ this!"

"_Yeah, riight._ If _I _didn't do this, and _you_ didn't do this, then _who_ did?"

"I dunno. Hey, why don't you ask Jerry?"

"_Shut uppp_."

* * *

And now, let us have a moment of silence for the dearly departed...

* * *


	12. Mud

_**A/N:**_ Sam's shotgun is in this installment. The other members of our merry little crew are too busy celebrating – I mean, are in shock over what happened. Hey, you crazy kids, behave yourselves back there. Pass that champagne around and be nice, okay?

_**Disclaimer:**_ You know the drill: I don't own them, yadda yadda yadda.

* * *

I didn't _see _anything, and I don't _know_ anything .

About Frances.

So don't ask me, okay? I don't need any more grief and aggravation. That Jerry is a damn maniac, and Angelina? She's not far behind. Tony and Dom? I don't need to give them a reason to pay any more attention to me. I'm still in deep enough as it is.

I was coasting along, right? Life was good, and up until that point I hadn't done anything to call attention to myself. Sam used me to kill fuglies. That's my favorite thing in the world, y'know? Then he'd clean me afterwards, and that would be the end of it. It was a good life. Had your quiet moments mixed in with moments of sheer terror, but that's the way I like it.

Until that job at Roosevelt Asylum.

That crazy spook of a doctor said he was going to help Sam feel better. Crazy as a shit-house rat is not my idea of better, but what the hell, I'm only a twelve gauge shotgun, right? Sam meant every word he said to Dean. I could feel it in his skin, hear it in his voice, so I wasn't that surprised when he got it into his head that big brother deserved some show and tell, Winchester style.

Damn it, I was hoping he'd use Maxine instead. She was there, hidden in his back waistband, but _nooo_, my luck doesn't run that good.

Sam used _me_ instead. Yeah, I could have jammed up on him, but that's a sin among my folks. Hurts like hell besides. Kid was too quick, I couldn't think of anything else to do but unload, blast that rock salt right into Dean's chest.

My name's been Mud ever since then, and that's the only name the others gave me that I can use in polite company. I've been number two on the shit list ever since. Guess who was number one? Yep. Frances.

One minute he was there, and the next thing I knew he was gone. Now me and Maxine and the rest of Sam's stuff are in this old beat up canvas bag Sam had as a spare. It's quiet in here, for once. Hey, don't get me wrong, Frances might not have deserved what they --- I mean whatever might have happened to him, but he was a damn fool for running his mouth like that.

I don't know what happened to him.

Wasn't paying attention.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

* * *

TBC


	13. Tailgate Party

_**A/N:**_ Planned on writing only one of these today. Oh well.

* * *

"Damn," Dean whispered to himself. He stood there staring at the trunk.

Sam walked up, shifted the laptop in its case to his other hand. "What's the matter?"

"I keep hearin' this noise." Dean shook his head. "Wasn't there before."

"What kind of noise? Knocking, maybe? Underneath the hood?"

"No." Dean frowned. " Not the hood. It's coming from the trunk."

"Oh-kay," Sam said slowly. Dean looked puzzled. _Very_ puzzled. "Maybe some of our gear is rolling around inside…"

"No. That's not it." Dean bit his lower lip. He stared at the trunk so hard and so long that it was starting to feel weird to Sam. And awkward.

It was three weeks since Dean recovered from pneunomia, and Sam still watched him like a hawk. Dean was still a little pale, but he was pretty much back to his old annoying self.

No more talk about Jerry the crowbar, nothing else about demon alarm clocks. This was something new.

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "You gonna share with the rest of the class?"

Dean stared at the trunk again, then shrugged and closed it. "Nah. Forget it. You do the research on that 'geist Bobby phoned us about?"

"Yep. Angry restless spirit. I got all the details. Uh, Dean, are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"What? Yeah. I'm better than good. 'm awesome."

"Uh huh." Sam didn't sound convinced.

_No way in hell_, Dean thought as he opened the door and slid behind the wheel. Mind's playing tricks. That was _it_. That was_ all_. Had to be.

Because he couldn't have heard laughing and giggling coming out of the trunk.

No way, no how.

* * *

TBC – Dad's journal, maybe. And Rumsfeld2 might make an appearance after that.


	14. Rumsfeld2

_**A/N:**_ And now, Rumsfeld2.

* * *

I'll eat anything that won't try to eat me.

The Boss makes sure I have enough to eat each day. I said _enough_ to eat, not _plenty_ to eat. He's afraid I'll get fat, and he's probably right about that. I'm a big dog, and I love to eat. Nothing wrong with that.

Sometimes I can guilt him into an extra slice of ham, or a piece of bacon on top of what I get in my bowl. Sometimes he says the hell with it and I get an entire steak that day. I usually get a sampling of whatever he cooks, but like I said before, not too much. Some days my belly gets full on just a little. Some days I have to drink a lot of water to get my insides to shut the hell up.

I don't have a problem doing whatever he asks me to. He's easy to get along with. I been lucky. Some dogs don't have it good like I do.

You don't need special training in my line of work, and the Boss knows it. Most animals can't stand supernatural critters. The hair on the backs of our necks raises up and we start growling and snarling. Even cats do that. I've seen it. It's natural instinct. Humans have it, but they don't listen to that so much.

I have my fun. It's not all work. Sometimes coyotes come sneaking through the yard. They usually head for my food and water bowls. They're dogs just like me, and whether or not I chase 'em depends on what mood I'm in. If I'm feelin' cranky, well then, all bets are off. If I'm in a mellow mood and had a good day, well, I can look the other way, as long as they don't get snooty about it.

That's why I can't stand cats. Damn hairballs.

Got two other members in my pack. Two young ones. They come around in this big rumbly car that smells like gunpowder and salt.

Sometimes the car smells like blood, and so do they.

They smell like hurt and sadness other times too. That bothers me. Don't know what I could do to stop that. The Boss gets sad like that too, even though he fusses at the other two. He's alpha to them too, and they know it. I never know when they're gonna show up, they just do, usually after the Boss is on the phone and he says words like "Winchester" and "idjit."

I like it better when they're just tired. That I can deal with, but sometimes when they're sitting there all quiet I like to walk up and just collapse on their feet. I show 'em my belly and that seems to lighten the mood. That older boy, that Dean, he's got some talented fingers. He likes to skritch me under my chin. Hit that sweet spot and man, my right hind leg starts thumping and I start grinning. Then his hand goes down my chest and before I know it I'm rolling over on my back like a week old pup.

The younger kid, Sam? He's the same way. Humans always think they're so damn different, and they're _not_.

Pack is pack, and I've got the best damn one of all.

* * *

Two more chapters after this. My muse is on a roll tonight.


	15. John's Journal

Ah, these kids nowadays tickle the hell outta me. They think they know so damn much, and they don't know anything.

Yeah, I'm talking about laptops. Especially Brain. He thinks he's so high and mighty, but you oughta see him when the power goes out.

Or when the WiFi isn't workin'.

Brain's about as useful as a paperweight then, and poor Sam turns into a quivering puddle of bitchfaced irritation.

Yeah, I got a way with words. 'm a journal, remember?

Hilarious.

Anyway, I belong to both boys. I don't have any favorites. There's a piece of John inside me, sure. That always happens whenever humans put pen to paper. I just got imprinted more than normal. I didn't show up until after Mary Winchester died, but I felt John's grief and anger about her passing just the same.

We had over twenty years together. John wrote everything down in me, and I mean everything, come rain or shine, during storms and power outages. Like to see those pansy laptops and computers top _that_. I think sometimes writing in me helped calm his nerves. Yeah, sure, I know he was a badass Marine back in the day, and one of the most lethal humans I've ever seen (and remember, I've seen more than a few myself) but this was some serious shit he was dealing with. Women in White? Wendigos? Come on now, you don't see that everyday.

The day John Winchester died was the worst day of my life.

Can't tell you about the places I've been. That's kinda private, y'know?

The boys? Well, Dean's got that macho man act down pat. He got it from John, so what do you expect? The stubble, the swagger, the leather. Sam? Poor kid wanted normal, and never was meant to get it. I'm not saying any more than that, so don't ask. Like I said, I'm a journal. I'm private, not just some loudmouth laptop.

Sorry.

My point is, I got some heavy duty spellwork tucked away inside of me, and it's no wonder that things have been a little…lively around here. Amulets, certain herbs, they all have an effect, and not just on flesh, either. I know the boys don't notice it. Even with all their training, they're still human. Even hunters don't like to think that supernatural stuff is going on twenty four seven all around them, but it is. The human mind's gotta take a break sometime.

The boys treat me like I'm sacred, because John's gone now, and I'm the most precious possession he had.

I wish they wouldn't do that, 'cause I'm _not_. The most precious possession John had, I mean.

_They are._

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Next chapter – Sick!Dean straight ahead.


	16. Relapse

Sam rolled over in bed, blinked, and stared.

Dean was gone.

Sam checked his watch. One thirty in the freaking morning, and Dean was _gone_.

Sam slipped on his jeans and t shirt. He padded over to the window and glanced out before he opened the door. Dean was out there, sitting on the hood of the Impala, dressed in a grey t shirt and blue jeans. He was barefoot.

Sam blinked again and everything came into focus. It took him a couple of moments to realize what Dean had in his lap.

Jerry.

_Shit._

Sam made a lot of noise when he opened the door. Sneaking up on his brother was not healthy, not at all.

Dean just sat there, pale underneath the moonlight. Spots of high color on both cheeks. He sat there staring into the darkness, and he didn't move, just sat there still as a stone with that damn crowbar on his lap. That was even more alarming.

"Uh, Dean? Hey."

Dean looked up warily. He tried to sit straight up, but his shoulders sagged.

"Hi, Sam." Dean wheezed a little.

"Something wrong?" _Oh God, _Sam thought,_ please don't tell me that Jerry told him I was evil and needed my head bashed in… _

"Can't sleep." Dean shrugged tiredly. "I keep hearing voices."

"Voices?" Sam edged a little closer.

"Yeah."

"Dean, why's Jerry out of the trunk?"

Dean stared down at his lap, and his head bobbled. "I just…I feel better when he's around, y'know?"

"Dean," Sam tried not to smile. "I'm your brother. Flesh and blood. Jerry's just a crowbar. A piece of metal."

Dean swayed a little from side to side. "He _said_ you'd say that."

"Dean, you gonna be out here all night?"

"I just wanna sleep, Sam. That's all," Dean slurred.

"Okay then." Sam held out his hand. "You wanna come inside now? I think we got some sleeping pills in the med kit. I'll go to the front desk in the morning. Cards are good. We can stay here another week if we have to."

Dean scowled. " 'm not sick."

"I know you're not. You're tired. You look like hell, bro. Come on. Inside? Now?"

Dean looked at Sam's outstretched hand and nodded slowly. "Legs feel numb," Dean mumbled.

"It's okay. I got you." Sam moved slowly. He took Jerry in one hand, and Dean managed to put his arm around Sam's shoulders. Dean stumbled when he got to his feet.

"How many voices, Dean?" Sam tried to sound casual.

"Just the one." They took one halting step, and Dean nearly pitched forward. Sam tightened his hand on Dean's side.

"Says he died because of me. I don't get it." Dean took a deep breath, and his chest hitched. "Who the hell is Frances?"

* * *

_**TBC**_


	17. Bob

_**Disclaimer:**_ Ya'll know the drill: I don't own Supernatural. You're gonna make me say the rest, then, aren't ya? This is for entertainment only, and not for profit. Happy now?

* * *

I'm number eight million, six hundred fifty thousand, nine hundred seventy fourth in line to sit on the Throne of Hell, so I guess it's safe to say that there's no way I'll ever polish that unholy stone chair with my scaly rump.

Name? You can call me Bob.

I'm a vengeance demon. Never really hit the big time, y'know? Missed it by that much for as long as I can damn remember. I got a long and laughable record of screw-ups and false information: Wars of the Roses, the Lincoln County War, Battle of the North Inch, you name it. And don't get me started on those damn Hatfields and McCoys.

Freaking humans. You can't live with 'em and you can't live without 'em.

I don't wanna talk about that, okay? It's ancient history. I wanna talk about Dean Winchester. There ain't a damn thing anybody can do to stop me from taking him apart, inch by inch.

Bet no one will be laughing by the time I get through. I mean, I got all this information about the brothers from a duffel bag. A duffel bag named Francis for cripes' sake. Come on, if you had told me that a few millennia back I would have disemboweled you with my claws for wasting my time.

I keep my ear to the ground, so to speak. Got feelers all over the place. I listen to stuff that other demons would laugh at. I heard this Frances call for help as they worked him over. I came over and listened to him. That Frances? Yeah he's one of the biggest pricks I've ever met, but he's got a real big taste for revenge, and that's something I can use. All I needed was permission. Those idiots in the trunk and the brothers won't know what hit them.

Frances has issues.

I mean, seriously.

My ears perked up when I heard the name Winchester.

I remember big John. He was the big man down in Hell. Defiant. Screamed a little, but this was Hell, remember? You scream, I scream, everybody screams down here. Heads rolled when John-boy slipped out of the Devil's Gate, helped his son Dean kill ol' Yeller, and then scampered on up to Heaven.

I mean, just the chance to screw over a Winchester…do you realize what kind of street cred that would give me? It's just me down here with the boys, and nobody else knows that I've got the inside track.

Think I'll give ol' Deano a fever first, just to get the ball rolling. Then…well, insanity's_ always_ good. A real crowd pleaser. I can see him now, big bad hunter stumbling around talking to himself. Might get a few of my pals to take that meatsuit of his for a spin, have the cops find him at some murder scene with his hands all bloody. Haven't decided whether I'm gonna drag him down to hell or not. Maybe later.

And in the meantime I get to screw with the King of Emo, Samuel Winchester himself. He wasn't part of the deal, only Dean was. Right now Francis doesn't give a damn about Sam, either, 'cause if he did he wouldn't be tormenting big brother Dean, now would he?

I can feel the angst rolling off the youngest kid, and I haven't even really gotten started. I got a two for one, and it's all Winchester 24/7, baby. How the hell did an imbecile like me get so damn lucky?

Hades, this is making my horns tingle!

Okay, okay. Getting all excited like that, it's unseemly for a professional such as myself. I'm okay now. I'm fine.

Anyyway, I make my deals where I can find 'em. Making a deal with a duffel bag? Hey, to get a crack at the Winchester brothers, I'll do this one for free.

My treat.

* * *

And now, we come to the Sick!Dean and Worried!Sam portion of our program...

* * *


	18. two and two makes

_**A/N:**_ Just a warning, there's cussing in this one....

* * *

At the end of the first day Sam tied Dean down on the bed by his wrists and ankles.

Dean was wild-eyed by then, and holding onto him was like holding onto an enraged wildcat. The only thing that saved Sam from getting his ass kicked was the fact that Dean was disoriented. His coordination was all screwed up. If he'd been in his right mind there was no way Sam could have handled him, much less knocked him out.

Dean was seeing things now. Hearing voices.

"…nuh…nuh…I didn't do anything to you…" Dean slurred. "…dun't even know your friggin' ass…lea' me alone, you hear me? Lea' me alone…" Dean bucked up against the ropes, twisted his wrists and ankles so much he rubbed his skin raw.

"...fuck you...Frances…no…no..." and Sam jerked when he heard the name.

"Touch me again, you sonofabitch…" Dean groaned. "....gonna…gonna kill you, hear me…kill you…"

_Dear God._ Sam felt cold inside. Frigid, right down to his bones. He sat down on his bed, watched his big brother thrash back and forth on the other bed.

Frances. The only Frances he knew was that stupid name he gave to that stupid duffel bag. The one he bought while he was at Stanford. It was a joke. Just a stupid fucking joke. He and Jess used to tease each other about the secret life of the stuff they owned, used to say that as soon as the humans left the room the objects would get up and start moving around.

Jess loved _Toy Story_ and the sequel. She watched them all the time.

There was something to intent. Sam knew that. Intent and will. Humans had more power than they realized. Names had power.

Dean named Jerry. Named his shotgun Angelina.

And Frances disappeared a few days ago.

"No! No!" Dean yelled. He twisted his wrists and ankles again as he tried to rise up. "...dun't touch me...kill you, Frances...fucking kill you…"

Sam stared at his brother.

What_ if._

_Just. What. Fucking. If._

Sam's hands shook as he pulled out his cell phone. Bobby's number was on speed dial.

"Bobby? Dean's sick. I need…I need your help…"

* * *

Next up: Bobby's Chevelle.


	19. Bobby's Chevelle

_**A/N:**_ You mean...gasps...a plot has snuck in here? Oh, nooooo!

* * *

How'd I end up at Singer Salvage? Here's the Reader's Digest version: The last idiot who owned me sold me to the Boss after I broke down on purpose by the side of the road.

That's right; I said _on purpose._

I was_ tired_. Tired of being run hard, day after day for twelve straight months, with no maintenance. Lousy cheap gas had mostly water in it. Tune up? Hmph. That was a fond memory. Did I ever get my oil changed? Hell no. I mean, after a while the scrap heap was looking pretty damn good to me.

I belonged to this jackass named Clay Griffin, one of the biggest idiots to come down the pipe. You'd think he was young, right? Young and stupid and didn't know better? Nope. When I was with him he was over forty and getting dumber with each passing year. Proof positive that you can't fix stupid, no matter what the age.

I knew if I kept on running this fool was going to roll me into a ditch somewhere.

So I stopped.

_Just. Like. That._

Singer came by in that blue tow truck of his. Griffin had my hood up. He was leaning in yelling and screaming at my engine, like all that verbal abuse was gonna get me up and running. I didn't give a damn, and I wasn't gonna move. The Boss got out of his truck, moved all slow and calm and deliberate. I could see him looking at me from underneath that trucker's cap. He was eyeing me.

He saw _me_.

Saw what I could do.

Saw I deserved better.

Dumbass figured he rooked the Boss with the price, but that wasn't true. They haggled a little, cash and my title passed hands, and then I got hooked onto the back of the tow truck, and away we went.

I felt lighter all of a sudden, y'know? Like a big heavy burden had been lifted off my frame.

The Boss gave Griffin a ride to the nearest gas station, and as we pulled out I dragged my rear wheels a little, nailed ol' Clay right in the face with a load of thick grey mud.

What? You didn't think I was gonna kiss him, did ya? Good-bye and thanks a whole damn lot for all the abuse?

_Please._

I know you humans suspect this sometimes. Maybe there's an appliance in your house that just seems to have it in for you.

Or a car.

It won't work for you, but nobody else is having a problem with it.

Think about _that_ for a moment.

The Boss made some changes to me. I get blessed with holy water on a regular basis. Got a radar detector and some other stuff that was added, for protection and such. I look just like any other old car you'd ever see, and unless you were a car fanatic, you wouldn't look at me twice. There's no rust on me. Anywhere.

Yeah, I know. I look like I need a bright new paint job. I don't look like much, and that's the whole point.

I like my life now. I get along with the dog, let him sleep on my hood whenever he wants to. I like dogs. Always have.

I like cats too. Me and the mutt have had some pretty spirited conversations about _that_. I'm still not sure about coyotes. That's a little too wild for me.

Gets pretty lively in the yard sometimes. People died in some of those cars and trucks. They either died on their way to the hospital or they were in a wreck. The Boss always goes out there with holy water and some of those big dusty books he keeps in my trunk sometimes. He tells them to go, and they do.

Most of them do, anyway.

The ones that hang around are usually too scared to move on. Sometimes they huddle in a corner of the yard, moaning.

Sometimes they get angry and start tossing stuff around.

Either way, the Boss doesn't put up with that nonsense. Not for long, so the few spooks who hang around, the smart ones, are very very _quiet_.

I've been used as a battering ram a couple times. No big deal. If I get damaged I get repaired. I live in an auto yard, remember? I've bounced some critters off my hood, and the Boss even ran some of them over with me once or twice. We've been stopped by the cops a couple of times too. The Boss sits chilly behind the wheel. Everything's current. Never do have any worries about that.

But when he puts the pedal to the metal, I can move like a mad sonofabitch. I had a 350 V8 engine when I first started out. Let's just say I upgraded, and leave it at that.

Now, about the hunters? I've met a few. Wasn't that impressed with 'em.

Ellen Harvelle? I like her. Reminds me of a lady who owned me back in the seventies. She was married, and after a year or two the husband decided that beating her was a good way to keep her in line.

We left one night soon after. A couple of months later she sold me to this car lot because she needed the money.

I don't blame her for that.

Those Winchester boys? I've been around them a couple of times. Never seen a pair of humans so bonded to each other. The older one, that Dean kid, is so fierce. Anybody who messes with the Boss or his brother Sam is in for a world of hurt. Dean's been under my hood a couple of times. Wants to race me against his Impala. He says she'd win.

I don't know about that.

The younger kid, Sam? Not interested in cars. Doesn't say much around me. That's okay.

And that Impala? Now,_ she's_ sweet. A classic.

Hell, if we ever do race, I _might_ let her win.

* * *

What's next? Maybe some more sick!Dean as Bobby and Sam try to figure things out. And we might even hear from that SOB Frances.


	20. Bad Frances

Demons aren't so bad. I think all this time they've gotten a really bad rap. Of course, if _Dean_ says something's _bad_, then it must be _good_, right?

Bob's my best friend in the whole wide world now.

Really.

That last day I could tell something was up by the way Maxine and Mud were acting. They barely said two words to me the entire time. Sam put me in the trunk instead of the back bench seat. Lousy bastard.

Once the trunk slammed shut I remember hearing a lot of whispering and then I heard something tear.

It sounded like fabric. It was me, screaming. It hurt.

It hurt, and I cursed Jerry and Angelina and Tony and Dom, and above all I cursed Sam for putting me back there in that damn trunk and that bastard Dean for taking Sam away from Stanford in the first place.

It got dark after that. I didn't know where I was. There was a lot of yelling and screaming and the air smelled like burnt matches.

Bob came around after that. He got real interested when I mentioned "Winchester."

Just like I knew he would.

I was a mess by then. Bob tried to put me back together the best he could but my straps were all torn off and my body was ripped up pretty bad. I knew I wouldn't be carrying anything ever again.

And I kept smelling fish, too. I hate fish.

Bad as things were, I got better, though.

So Bob's a vengeance demon? So what? I don't have any loyalty to the family business. Never did have any, so what's the big deal? My life at Stanford was filled with books and libraries and _normal_, not salt and gunpowder and screams. After Jessica died, Sam should have stayed at Stanford. I know Jessica would have wanted that for him. There was nothing out on the road but pain and blood and death, and what does this idiot do? He packs me up and follows Dean out on the road like some mindless puppy.

Me and Dean? We're best buds now.

I'm that cold spot in the air all around him. I whisper in his ear, tell him all the things that are gonna happen to him now. He can't see me, but he can hear me. I can touch him. I poke him in the ribs, tweak his nose, play with his hair. Dean hates all that.

Good.

I never could do anything like that _before_, but I can _now_, and I owe it all to Bob.

Sam didn't grieve for me. He didn't get sad when Dean found that fish in the trunk with one of my straps wrapped around it.

Sam didn't cry.

Sam didn't do any of that, after all the things I did for him, too. All those damn books I carried for him, back and forth from the library. I never complained when he overpacked me.

Not one damn time.

I never complained when he'd drop me on the floor as soon as we got home.

It's been _Sam Sam Sam_, all my life. I thought he cared about me. I thought what we had was real.

Sam put his stuff in that other duffel bag and went on his merry way. I gave him the best years of my life, and this is the thanks I get?

I see that worried look on Sam's face now. He's worried. Dean's out of his head and if me and Bob have anything so say about it, big brother's not getting any better any time soon.

Like never.

And after I'm done with Dean, Sam's next. Bet he's a lot of fun to play with too.


	21. Dog day afternoon Rumsfeld2

Sam smells sad.

I can smell him een before me and the Boss pull up and park.

There's badness in the air too. Smells like red pepper and burnt matches. I got a nose full of pepper one time. This smells worse.

I pull back, and the Boss looks at me all sharp when I growl a little. He gives me this short nod.

Time to go to work.

I jump into the back seat, then out the rear window. The door to the room's open, so I head right for it. Hey, why not? We came all the way out here for a visit.

Kid's looking like he's thinking to himself, "Why did you bring the damn dog?" but they do that hug thing humans do instead when the Boss gets out of the car. Sam sounds rough, like he's been crying. My nose fills up with all the scents in the air and I know what I'm gonna see even before I walk through the door.

The humans can't see it. That's what they got me around for. I stand there for a moment staring before I walk in all the way. Got my ears flat against my head and my hackles are raised up. I don't like what I see.

Sam had to tie his brother down.

I hate ropes. That's one of the first things the Boss learned when he met me.

Dean's got them around his arms and legs. He can't move, and maybe that's a good thing. He looks bad. Dark circles under his eyes. He smells hot and cold at the same time, and I can tell that thing's been touching him, because I can smell it all over him. He's weak, and I don't like that.

Not one damn bit.

The thing in the air all around him is hard to see. It's moving around like one of those biting flies in summertime. I hate those things almost as much as I hate cats.

And ropes.

You ever see something out of the corner of your eye, and it was moving real fast, and it was making some kind of sound that sounded like talking, only real fast? You didn't know what it was, and it scared you?

You probably saw something like this.

And then you told yourself there was no such thing.

I walk over to the bed, sit down, look over my shoulder at the Boss. That's my signal to him. He gets it.

Another nod from him, and I'm up on the bed. Sam tries to stop me and the Boss grabs him by his arm. The thing buzzes by my head, just like one'a those damn flies. It's pissed, but it ain't half as mad as I am. Nobody hurts my pack.

Nobody.

I snap at it as it buzzes around us. I catch the end of it in my teeth and it tastes nasty, slick and rotten. I let go just as it turns and gives me a good lick across my muzzle. Doesn't hurt much. I lay down next to the kid, put my head on his chest. He looks at me, all dull and sick, and he smiles a little.

"...guh...good…dog…"

Hey, my tail wags a little when he says that. It's always nice to hear.

When I first came to live with the Boss I didn't understand about the special water he'd use to give me a bath. He called it _holy water_, and I used to wonder how water could have holes in it, but now I know I was wrong about that.

He put these shiny things on my collar, and I didn't understand that either at first. Told me he didn't want me to end up like the dog before me. Told me I had protection now.

Remember I told you before that sometimes things pass through the yard? Well, they don't seem to like the tags on my collar, so they stay away from me.

Don't exactly know what protection is, but if it came from the Boss, then it's got to be a good thing. As as long as I'm near the Dean kid like this, he's got it too, and that's good enough for me.

* * *

_**Next: Bobby**_


	22. Bobby

_My God,_ Bobby thought to himself.

Dean Winchester looked like hell, and Sam didn't look much better.

Best not to show it. Best not to react to how pale Sam looked. Dean's cheeks were sunken and his eyes were glazed over. He was in his own little world, lost in it with whatever this was that had him in his grip. Dean twisted his wrists against the ropes holding him down on the bed, and that was when Bobby noticed that Sam had padded Dean's wrists with towels from the bathroom.

Rumsfeld2 cocked his head to one side as he stared at Dean. The dog looked at Bobby and barked. He went over, snuffled at one of Dean's bound hands, then climbed up onto the bed. The protection charms on his leather collar jiggled softly as the big Rottie laid down and carefully put his head on Dean's chest.

"Bobby?" Sam croaked. He moved forward to grab the dog by the collar.

"No. Leave him be," Bobby said gruffly. He put his hand on Sam's forearm, calm, steady. Sam stopped, and Bobby saw that Dean settled down as soon as Rumsfeld2 lay down beside him.

"He's okay for now," Bobby rumbled, not unkindly. "Now you need to get a grip on yourself, Sam."

"He's…he's like this because of me." Sam glanced back at his brother and the look of grief and desperation on his face tightened Bobby's chest.

"No. Dean's like this because of this thing. Whatever it is. We're going to get rid of it, but right now I need for you to get a grip. Right now, boy, you hear me?"

Sam nodded jerkily.

"Okay. I need you to help me bring some things out of the car."

"Bobby, I can't leave---" Sam turned half-way towards the bed.

"_Now_, Sam. Let's _go_."

Sam raised an eyebrow, but he followed Bobby out just the same.

"This ought to do it," Bobby muttered to himself once they'd stepped outside. "Here." He put out his right hand and Sam took what was offered.

"What's this?" Sam peered down at the object in his hand. It was triangular, about the size of a dollar coin. It was bronze metal, old and worn, heavier than it looked.

"That's the mate to the one in my pocket. You keep that on you and our friend in there won't be able to eavesdrop on anything we have to say."

"And?"

"Now we can have a private conversation," Bobby grated out. "I want you to tell me everything you know about this damn Frances."

* * *

_**TBC**_


	23. Bobby's Toy Story

_**A/N: **_Yep. We're back!

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," Bobby muttered. "Frances is a what now, Sam?"

"He's a duffel bag. _Was_ a duffel bag."

"Uh…huh."

"We found one of the straps in the trunk a couple of days ago. It was wound around this big dead fish."

Bobby snorted without meaning to, and then he blinked. "So the duffel sleeps with the fishes, huh? Seems like somebody needs to step away from the damn Godfather DVDs."

"I was at Stanford…Jess had a thing for _Toy Story_."

"_Toy Story_."

"Yeah, you know…inanimate objects coming to life when the humans aren't around."

"I know about _Toy Story_," Bobby growled.

"You do?" Sam blinked in amazement.

"Don't start with me, Sam. I ain't in the mood."

"Dean said Frances' name. Told him to stop bothering him. That was something only me and Jess would know. I never told Dean about Frances."

Bobby looked thoughtful. "Okay. Okay. If anyone could get an inanimate object pissed off and gunning for his ass, your idjit older brother would be the one I'd put money on. Sometimes…"

"Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes demons latch onto things like that. For revenge. And considering the business your family's in, I'd guess doing a number on Dean would be right up some hell bitch's alley."

Bobby turned and nodded at the Impala. "Okay, pop the trunk. Let's see what we've got to work with."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ It's a two fer today. Dean's dreamcatcher is posted right after this one. Upcoming chapters include POVs from Dean's Desert Eagle, his Bowie knife, the crossbow, Sam's lock pick set, Dean's box of cassettes, and the boys' Homeland Security Fake IDs. What d'ya mean, they're _not _real?


	24. Leotie

_**A/N:**_ Dean's dreamcatcher.

* * *

I came into Dean's life two months after he started hunting on his own.

Dean slept in the Impala the first week we were together, and at night he'd take me out of the trunk and hang me on the rear view mirror. Doesn't matter to me where he hangs me; I do my job.

His dreams were pretty good that week. He dreamed about saving people on the good hunts, dreamed about when he was a kid, all little and giggly and playing with his Mom and Dad and his new baby brother.

I caught the bad dreams, the ones filled with blood and screaming and flames and loss. I held them in my net until the sun came up and they faded away.

Leotie blessed each and every part of me, including the willow, the sinew, beads and feathers. I was made and blessed with the best intentions. You'd be surprised how effective that can be. She knew what he needed the most, and that was when she created me and gave me to him on the last day they were together.

The hunt Dean was on was a bad one. He was pretty bruised and banged up by the time she found him, so she took him in and nursed him back to health, and when he was well again Dean left.

We never saw Leotie again after that.

I dunno, he gets a little twitchy whenever he thinks about how deeply she cared about him. It's like he's supposed to take care of everyone else, but he can handle everything alone.

You and I both know that's crap.

I know Dean thinks about Leotie each and every time he sees me. He gave me her name.

I'm okay with that.

* * *

I didn't recognize half the words that Bobby Singer said over me when he took me out of the trunk. He didn't say very much. Neither did Sam. Sam looked worried and tired and I was sorry I hadn't been able to help him, either.

Sam put me on the wall right over Dean's bed. Dean was sleeping.

I could see Frances.

He looked different, but I knew it was him. He zipped through the air like a housefly, and I waited. He brushed against Dean's cheek and drew blood. Dean moaned, tried to pull away from him.

The dog on the bed with Dean raised his head and growled.

And I waited.

I waited until Frances rose up into the air, and I could feel myself pulling at him, just like I can do with bad dreams. Right then and there I realized what the words Bobby Singer said over me meant.

Frances screamed as I pulled him into the net and held him there.

"Gotcha," Singer said softly. He pulled this small leather bound book out of his pocket and began to read.

Sam looked relieved.

And Frances never stopped screaming.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Monday, Bob the vengeance demon explains it all, including where evil duffel bags go when they bite the dust. Secretly I knew you wanted to know...


	25. armageddon outta here

**A/N - **Chapter title taken from _Bruce Almighty_. I added an extra part because some of you guys said you really wanted to see Frances suffer. Well, I do too. That's how we roll in this fandom.

Bob the vengeance demon explains it all. Well, sorta.

* * *

Damn, I had such plans for Deano and Sammy. After I got through with them hunters were gonna talk about the drama and the Winchester angst for years, but that's all over now. Should have known better than to work with an amateur on this thing, and that's what that damn Frances was.

Got a bad feeling as soon as that old hunter and that damn dog of his walked into the room. My tail started tingling, and I knew it was all over. I left as soon as Frances got caught up in that dreamcatcher. No need to drag things out, right? I don't regret anything. I took my shot. Nice thing is, I got away clean and clear.

Later on I checked in with the Home Office downstairs. Got the usual amount of ribbing from the others. You show me a vengeance demon with a spotless record, and I'll show you a sumbitch who's either lying or has somebody covering for him or her. I still made my monthly quota, but I'm gonna concentrate on humans from now on. Get more points for those.

I saw Frances when I was down in Hell. I stood around and watched for a while.

He got his old body back, and when I saw him this demon was overpacking him with broken skulls and sharp edged rocks. Frances moaned and groaned and pleaded for him to stop, said all those sharp edges was making his fabric ache. He got packed so full his zipper was just about ready to rip open, and the funny thing was, the demon doing the honors had a mask on that looked just like Dean Winchester.

Remind me never to piss off Alastair and his bunch, okay? They know just how to hit you where you live.

Another demon came up, and this one wore a Sam Winchester mask.

NotSam and NotDean proceeded to play a little game I call "Disgruntled Airport Baggage Handler" with Frances. He never stopped screaming, and when he hit the ground for the 50th time his seams split wide open.

A hellhound came slinking forward and peed all over him. That stuff's like sulfuric acid.

Frances caught fire and screamed even louder.

After that a couple of hellcats came up and marked their territory.

I know what you're thinking, and no, that_ didn't_ put the fire out. I felt like putting some marshmallows on a stick and singing songs by the old campfire. Reminded me of when I was human and all.

I got bored right after the third time, so I left. Sheesh.

People aren't the only ones who end up down in Hell. Just goes to show how limited you meat monkeys are in your thinking. Some things are born bad, or they go bad later on. Naturally, I wasn't gonna mention this, but if Frances had just let go of his hatred of Dean Winchester, he woulda ended up in the other place, with the wings and harps.

Poetic irony's a bitch, ain't it?

It was fun while it lasted, kids, but I think putting mucho distance between myself and these hunters is a mighty damn fine idea. That old hunter looks like the kind who holds a grudge until it screams for mercy, and I never did like dogs.

Hey, it was nothing personal. Just business.

You know anybody who needs a good all purpose vengeance demon? Just look in a mirror any time, day or night, and say my name three times.

I'm Bob. We can work something out.

* * *

Tomorrow: Dean's Desert Eagle.


	26. Bronson

_**A/N:**_ It's Tuesday. And now, without further ado, Dean's Desert Eagle.

* * *

I hate Clint, and he hates me. End of story.

What? That's not_ enough_ for you?

Dean named me Bronson. After _Charles Bronson_. Does that sound like a friggin' back up gun to you?

Yeah, I heard all this trash talk about Clint being Dean's primary gun. I know you already talked to that hag Angelina. You really gonna listen to those posers?

A man needs as many firearms as he can get in this business. I'm a big gun, pretty damn versatile if I do say so myself. Depending on the job I need to do, Dean can swap my barrel, bolt assembly and magazine out so I can handle larger cartridges.

Has he EVER done that with Clint? Short answer: _Hell no_.

I can do wrought iron loads and .357, .44 Magnum and .50 Action Express too. I deliver a real big bang, so I don't consider myself to be a back up gun. Believe me, between my firepower and Dean's aim, you can put a fork in any sonofabitch we target , 'cause they are _done_.

Yeah, I know. I sound real defensive, don't I? Sorry. It's been a screwed up week, what with Dean being sick and all, because of Frances. Everybody was on edge here.

Dean's better now. I was worried until Bobby showed up. Didn't like seeing Sam that way, either. He's okay in my book.

I saw what happened to Frances in the trunk. I'm not saying anything about who did what to who.

Whom.

Whatever. I'm a gun, not a damn English teacher.

Besides, I gotta live and work with these idiots, you know?

And I wasn't that heartbroken to see Frances go. Not gonna lie about _that_.

One more thing, and I'm not talking about this stuff anymore. Remember that business with that shritga a few years back? I mean, the same fug that nearly got Sammy back in Fort Douglas?

When Dean had the chance to put that damn witch down, once and for all, he _didn't_ use Clint.

He used _me_.

* * *

Thursday: A little quality time with Sam and Dean. Sam's angsty and guilt ridden. And Dean is just…well, Dean.

Oh, BTW: upcoming chapters will feature some weapons that have only been seen in the promos, like Dean's Glock, Sam's Claw knife (I think it was in the Pilot for a brief moment), and Dean's Winchester rifle that he had in that series of promo pics shot in the desert. That dude's named Chuck, after Chuck Connors. Dean's sniper rifle will also make an appearance. Name's Bruce. Or Mr. Willis to you.


	27. Sam and Dean: The Aftermath

_**A/N:**_ Sam and Dean, dialogue only. I think I need to up my meds.

* * *

"Dude, I can hear you angsting all the way over here. Enough already."

"It was _my_ fault, Dean."

"Jesus. Could you be any more of a girl than you already are?"

"I mean it. This whole thing with…with Frances…"

"What's even more disturbing is the fact that you gave him – gave _it _-- such a girly name. _Frances_? With a _es_ at the end? No _wonder _the damn thing was pissed."

"You nearly died. This isn't funny."

"Hell it ain't. I nearly got taken out by an evil duffel bag. Do you realize how freaking _stupid _that sounds?"

"Well…yeah…"

"You didn't tell anybody but Bobby, did you?"

"Just…just Bobby."

"Good. I got my reputation to think about. Look, our lives are freaky enough as it is. This _Toy Story_ thing? I'm not gonna worry about it."

"That why you named the crowbar Jerry?"

"Ha ha. Funny. Don't make me go out to the trunk and get him, Samantha."

"I mean, think about it. There were no explosions, no porn, and you watched _Toy Story_ anyway."

"We were staying in that skeezy motel off I-9. Cable was the only good thing about that dump, remember, and there was nothing else on. So what are you trying to _say_, Sam?"

"Nothing. You always use the credit cards to get us rooms in places with cable whenever a Pixar flick is on."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah, Dean, you _do_. _Finding Nemo, Monsters Inc., The Incredibles, Ratatouille, WALL-E, Up_...."

"None'a that means a damn thing, Poindexter."

"You watched _Toy Story 2_ when it came out. Said Jessie the Cowgirl was hot and you always wanted a horse like Bullseye."

"Grrrrr..."

"You got that macho man act down pat, but I wonder about you, bro'. Wouldn't be surprised if you named the Impala after Mom."

"…"

"_You did._ You named the Impala _Mary_?"

"W-What? Oh, hell no!"

"Uh huh. Wait a minute. Hello? Oh yeah, he's here. Dean, it's Ellen."

"Hey there. Yeah, I'm okay."

"Glad to hear it, hon. Listen, Dean, the next time you come over to the Roadhouse would you mind spending a little quality time with the jukebox? I hear she thinks you're _really_ cute. And the cooler has the hots for you too ---"

_**"SAMM!"**_

Five hours later Samuel Winchester brushed his teeth with Preparation H.

It was the opening salvo in a vicious prank war that lasted ten days.

There were _many_ casualities.

Oh, the _humanity_...

* * *

Next post Monday.


	28. The Boys In the Box

_**A/N:**_ I hadn't planned on letting Dean and Sam's fake IDs go next, but they had other ideas. One of them is an IRS agent, and I do not want to be audited, so here they are.

* * *

Sometimes we have to throw our weight around. You never know when someone might make a phone call to the local IRS office and snitch...ah, I mean provide pertinent information. It's always nicer when people cooperate.

Anyway, none of that trunk stuff for me and my boys. We ride first class all the way, right here in the front seat. Hey, I can't remember where Dean got that cigar box from.

I'm Agent James Page. Homeland Security.

That's my brother, Robert Plant, over there. Ol' Bob looks just like Sam, doesn't he?

We got it all, dude, a badge for every damn occasion.

FBI? Sure thing. Agents Tyler and Perry, right here.

Fish and Wildlife? Meet Agents Ford and Hamil, at your service.

We are works of art, people. Can't say it any plainer than that. We were created at copy shops every where but Alaska and Puerto Rico. We come in pairs now, 'cause the boys are together again, but there was that time when Sam was at Stanford. That's a gap of four years, which means that Dean's got solo IDs. He's been Minnesota State Police (Gregory Washington), an insurance investigator (Robert Plant, _Global Insurance Company_), CDC (John Bonham), you name it, we got it.

Well, yeah, that Washington one did come back to bite Dean squarely on the ass. It happens sometimes. That thing with the Benders was not exactly a warm and fuzzy moment I really wanna remember.

That reminds me...we weren't _all _created. Some of us were, let's say, liberated. Dean has skillful hands and wandering fingers. Let's leave it at that, shall we?

What? You wanna know about that American Idol Talent Scout ID Dean's supposed to have? The one he allegedly uses to convince young women to ah, audition for him? Overnight?

Uh, I don't know anything about _that_.

Let's move _on_, shall we?

Just in case you're wondering, Sam's no slouch at picking a pocket, either. Dean trained him, _remember_? And those big Sasquatch hands of Sam's are just as nimble. Papa John used to force him to practice. Way I heard it, Sam used to bitch about that, but believe me, he's not bitching anymore.

What? You want _more_ names and _more_ details? Oh heck, I can't do that. Told you too much as it is. You gotta have some mystery in life, you know? That's the trick. You don't tell all the secrets. Where's the fun in that?

I can honestly say that we know nothing about whatever happened to Frances in the trunk. That is our story and we are _sticking_ to it, no matter what anybody else says.

Whenever I see the boys in those black business suits I always get a tingle. That means we're going to work. We go undercover sometimes, too, and there's nothing like seeing Dean and Sam flash the tin on the local yokels. I get a rush from that, every since damn time. I got my own wallet; it's black _and_ real leather. Where did Dean get it from? Don't ask, don't tell, that's my motto. Anyway, I'm worth it. Damn right. Real leather has a certain look and feel, and anyway, pulling out some obviously fake leather wallet is tacky, and that's one thing our boys _aren't_.

So the next time you see two US Marshals named Billy Gibbons and Frank Beard, don't even worry about that crowd of homicidal maniacs outside, ma'm.

We're here to help.

* * *

Next up? Dean's sniper rifle, Bruce. Oh, that's _Mr._ Willis to you.


	29. They call him Bruce

_**A/N:**_ And now, Dean's sniper rifle.

* * *

I was born in West Germany. Been in the States for about four years now. Dean could have named me _Hans_, or _Gruber_, after the bad guy in _Die Hard_. I got lucky. He calls me Bruce instead.

Uh…Bruce Willis?

Geez, you need to get _out_ more.

I'm a specialist, a Heckler-Koch MSG3 sniper rifle. You don't really need to know any more than that. What you should know is that I'm the best there is for long distance wet work, kids, and let's face it, when I get pulled out of the trunk things usually end bloody. I trust Dean to aim me at whatever needs to be taken out. I have a job to do, and I do it extremely well.

Wasn't always like that.

I came to the states by way of sunny Mexico. I was way out in the middle of damn near nowhere, with one of John Winchester's old Marine buddies, this idiot by the name of Hamilton Pierce.

Hammy was nuts. He'd be drunk and pretty well toasted by ten in the morning, nearly each and every day. Then he'd load me up and take shots at damn near everything that moved. Even I knew that was a damn waste of my talents. I always jerked whenever he aimed me at anything living.

Hey, wasn't that dog or that bird's fault this jackass got drunk. I don't have a problem doing my job, but you gotta draw the line somewhere. He'd curse at me all the time, like I really cared about _that_. Getting called a worthless sumbitch kinda loses the desired effect the fifth or six time around anyway.

Anyway, the day the boys pulled up I heard them before I saw them. That girl of Dean's rumbles like she's real proud of herself, and that got me curious. I saw Dean first. He looked around, eyes nearly gone to slits, taking inventory on everything.

Sam got out of the car next, and he was looking real pissy about something. Found out later on they'd been hunting chupacabra down here. Sam kept picking at his clothes, and I knew he was picking chuppie bits off. I also knew the kid probably wanted to take a nice long shower as soon as he could. Chupacabra are filthy bastards. The smell alone will kill ya.

I'm not religious, but I think it was meant for me to leave that day. Instead of throwing me into a corner like he usually did, Hammy stuck me up on that wall mount in the living room, over the fireplace.

The front door was wide open. Dean could see me from where he stood on the porch. He took one look at me and started grinning from ear to ear. "Damn. I gotta get me one'a those."

"Yeah?" Hammy swayed back and forth like a sapling in a high wind. "Damn thing's no good. Can't hit the side of a barn with it."

"You mind if I take a look?"

That's what I love about this kid. You never handle another hunter's weapons without asking permission first. I never had the pleasure of meeting John Winchester, but he taught his sons right.

Hammy nodded. Dean walked in, took me down and did a weapons check on me, quick and efficient. Don't mean to sound gay, but damn, dude's got good hands. Damn good ones. Last time I was handled like that was back at the Heckler-Koch plant in West Germany.

Sam had this look on his face like he didn't even know why Dean would even bother. Next thing I knew we were outside.

"Dude, set 'em up for me, will you?" Dean muttered. Sam nodded and put five beer cans on that wooden fence in the backyard.

We nailed all five.

Hammy sold me for two hundred dollars American. Hey, I'm worth at least ten times that much, but Hammy probably figured Dean didn't have that much on him, and besides the booze supply in the house was getting low.

Twenty minutes later, Dean slid me into my case with the scope, and after that I met the folks in the trunk. We got along just fine, from the very first day.

Some months later we met Andy Gallagher. I was shocked when Dean gave us away to that little goofball. Clint was all for pistol whipping the dumb bastard but he said Dean didn't want to. I wondered about that. Maybe getting obi-wanned by that little sleaze had after-effects.

Things went from bad to worse, quick, fast, and in a hurry. That night Dean's looking through my scope at Ansem, and the next thing I know Dean sticks my muzzle underneath his chin instead. His eyes went blank. He didn't feel right to me.

His finger tightened on my trigger, and you may as well put a fork in both of us, 'cause I knew we were done. It's one thing to jerk and throw someone's aim off, but the way Dean had me jammed into the underside of his jaw was too tight. If I went off, he was dead. Period.

I still don't know_ what_ I would have done. I'm glad I never had to find out. The patron saint of hunters must've decided to cut us both a huge break, because in the next minute Andy killed Ansem down below, and Dean blinked less than a second later. I could tell he was back when he sat back and pointed me down at the ground.

Angelina, Clint and Jerry gave me a pass on that one. I didn't get snubbed the way Mudd did after Sam popped Dean a good one at Roosevelt Asylum with that rock salt. I like everybody in the trunk, but they're a little too unreasonable sometimes.

What? You want _more_? Real nosy, aren't ya?

Okay. Hammy bit the dust three weeks after I left. A band of pixies put him down for good.

Death by pixie. Now _that's_ damned embarrassing.

………

What? This is over, _right_? So why are you sitting there staring at me like that?

Oh.

You want me to _say_ it, don't you?

All right, damn it. Don't suppose there's any harm. Dean says it sometimes too.

_Yippie kai yai yay, motherfucker. _

There. Ya happy now?

* * *

Who's next? Beats the heck outta me. Two more next week.


	30. Blindsided

_**A/N:**_ Much thanks to everyone who has embraced this little tale of mine. I don't know where all this is coming from, but what the heck, we'll enjoy the ride while it lasts! This chapter is a little darker than the others. When I started this series I always knew there would be some members of Dean and Sam's crew who would not want to talk to me. So far there's been only one, but she's not the one telling this story, though. I promised to keep the name of my informant a secret, and I'm going to honor that request.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

I shouldn't be telling you this. I'm not surprised she wouldn't talk to you.

Dean hunted by himself for two years after he and John split up. Sam left for Stanford, and it's none of your business how I felt about that. All that time he put salt lines down on the windows and doors, just like John taught him.

And the damn thing came in anyway.

The first night it covered him like a blanket. It sounded happy, like he was a brand new toy and so much fun to play with. It fed off his memories and his feelings. Told him that everybody who loved him, left him, that she (and yeah, this thing was female) never would leave. She whispered to Dean as she touched him. The sound of her voice made his ears bleed.

Dean tried to fight it off, but he's only human, see. Even with all his training, he was only that, and this fug knew it. The next day he was too weak to even get up. It hovered over the bed, and none of us could do a damned thing about it.

Not the kind of thing you wanna hear, huh? Was it a demon? Beats the hell outta me. None of us knew. Sam took the laptop to Stanford with him, remember? John had the journal. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't like anything we ever hunted, before or since.

The first night Dean cursed at it. He always did. That was the only thing he had, I guess. The next morning he managed to get out of bed. Still don't know how. He was weak and wobby, like one of those newborn baby horses. I've seen them on farms as we drive by. Dean was so pale his freckles were more solid than he was. The weaker he got, the stronger this bitch got. She looked like a woman by this time: tall, slender, and blonde. She was becoming more real, and he was fading out.

Third night, and it was more of the same.

On the fourth day Dean somehow out out of bed and staggered over to his duffel on that chair by the window. I still don't know how he was able to get to his Bowie knife, but he did.

Humans can bless things on their own. Simple prayers, right? That's what he did.

"Come back to bed, Dean." That's what that bitch told him. She smiled as he turned around to face her. I figure the kid would have lasted another week. Best meal she'd ever had. She was still hungry, and he had a lot more life left in him that she wanted to feed off. Things like that get arrogant sometimes. Full of themselves, and that's when they make mistakes.

Dean got close to her, and that was the biggest mistake that pale bitch ever made. And the last.

She screamed when he stuck her. Disappeared like a snowball in hell, and that suited us all just fine.

He was too weak. Couldn't drive. He knew if he did we'd all end up in a ditch somewhere, and you know he wasn't gonna do _that_. Dean couldn't do anything else but lie down because his body was just about worn out, so he put the Bowie knife under his pillow and slept for two days straight.

Way I understand it, John called a couple of days later and bitched him out, told him to get a move on because they had a job to do out there. I loved John, but he was an idiot sometimes. Dean just took the abuse, never said a word about what almost happened. It was over anyway, right? Maybe he was afraid that John would blame him, say he'd gotten sloppy.

That was years ago, and Dean still sleeps with the Bowie knife under his pillow. He chose her, he blessed her, and none of us have a problem with that. He's done that every night since then. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why.

It's precaution, not fear.

* * *

What's next this week? Hmmm…Dean's boots (I have a very weird friend, and her name is Phoebe), Sam's Klaww knife, Dean's box of cassettes, but I have the feeling that Dean's leather jacket might just push his way to the front. We'll see. Next post will be Wednesday.


	31. A Matter of Style

_**A/N:**_ Much thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed, alerted and lurked on this story. I'm a little behind answering all the reviews, but I'll get to each and every one of you, I promise!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

Next up: Dean's Leather Jacket

* * *

Crossley, Oklahoma. The oldest Macklin boy wore me first. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but there was something lacking. Took me a few weeks to figure out what it was. Then it hit me: he was like school in summer: no class.

I looked okay, I guess. I mean I hung off his shoulders and I was heavy enough so that he wouldn't get chilled, but there was something missing, you know? Style.

I got passed to his two younger brothers, and they didn't have it either. Style, I mean. They never took care of me, and sometimes I ended up being thrown into a closet. On the floor. Not a hanger. Typical stuff.

The last kid? Good grief, he was so skinny I felt like a sheet flapping around in the wind whenever he wore me. I was embarassed, but I did my job. Kept the kid warm. The family moved down south to follow the dad's job, and the next thing I knew I was hanging up in a thrift shop.

Down in Donaldson, Florida, of all damn places.

Heck, I _knew_ that wasn't good.

It's warm down there, all year around. Not much use for a leather coat, not even at night.

It got worse. When it rains, it pours, right?

Turns out the good folks at the Evergreen Hollow thrift shop made the mistake of accepting donations from the estate of one Maude LeCroix. Maude was a bonafide witch, and it got really freaky in that place for a while. Apparently some of her unearthy possessions decided to raise a little hell to celebrate her biting the big one.

That was my introduction to the wonderful world of weird. Hell, I didn't know half this stuff even existed.

John Winchester showed up with his eldest son one day. Turns out the owner of the store was an old Marine buddy of his. John and Dean put a stop to all the weirdness, and when they left a day later, I was folded up neatly in the trunk.

I liked John the first time I laid eyes on him. Liked Dean too. Dean copied that bad ass attitude of his Dad, and there was nothing wrong with _that_. That's what kids do. They imitate the ones they loved, and I could tell Dean worshipped the ground his Dad walked on. Whether that's right or wrong is not for me to say. Didn't meet Sam until later. Kid didn't say much. He kept that shaggy little head of his stuck in a book just about every time I ever saw him, and that was okay.

We headed up north, and I was glad about that. Meant I'd be put to some use.

John wore me for a month or so. I could always tell the difference between a normal day and a hunt by the things he'd slip into my pockets. A silver knife, a silver flask filled with holy water. Tools of the trade. We'd go to work. Now that I think about it, I was lucky. Never got ripped or slashed. One thing about it, my leather wears like iron. Blood wipes right off.

That winter we were up in Craine, Minnesota. Damn, that place was cold, I mean bitterly cold, cold as a well digger's…well, you get the idea. Cold.

John noticed that Dean's coat was looking a little ragged around the edges. Thin, too. Kid never complained. He wouldn't.

I wasn't surprised when John handed me to Dean.

Kid didn't want to take me at first. I mean, the coat off his Dad's back? No way. John looked at him, smiled a little, and nodded. "It's okay. Go on, Dean."

Dean put me on, and it felt like homecoming. He flipped my collar up.

Don't get me wrong, John had that swagger, but Dean has it in spades. I've heard other humans remark about the way the kid looks. We walk into a place, and Dean's got that _don't give a damn walk_ of his. I'm a perfect fit through his shoulders. I gotta admit, I never felt this way when John wore me. Never felt this way when anybody _else_ wore me, for that matter. It all boils down to one thing: kid's got style, and then some. Who wouldn't? Light stubble, a gunfighter's strut, broad shoulders wearing smooth brown leather. We're like warriors out here, and it shows. The ladies appreciate it.

I mean, really, _really_ appreciate it.

You think I'm going to share details with you about that? Nope. Sorry.

Did he name me? Well, that's private. You can call me badass. Yeah, I like that, a lot.

I've been on hunts with Dean. Anything that tries to sink their claws into him is gonna have to come through me first. He doesn't wear me all the time, but that's not because he thinks I can't hack it. I can take it. Dean knows that. But there's a reason I don't go out on each and every hunt.

It's because John wore me first.

* * *

Who's next? Tomorrow, maybe Sam's jacket. Leather envy is a terrible thing…


	32. Memoirs of a slightly peeved tan jacket

_**A/N:**_ And now, as promised, Sam's jacket.

* * *

So _he's_ leather. Big whoop.

What? You expect me to jump up and down because of that? _Please._

I'm tan. It's a good, serviceable color. Nice fabric. Polyester and cotton blend. Durable. That's a definite plus in the line of work we're in. You ever try to get fugly guts and goo out of permanent press fabric? Yeech. Stuff clings to _everything_.

And the _smell_. Don't get me _started_ about the _smell_.

I'm machine washable, too. Whenever Sam does laundry, all he has to do is douse me with a little color safe bleach, run me through the normal cycle (warm water, please), and the dryer and I'm done. Quick, and simple, not like _some_ folks I know.

Dean uses the credit cards to get his leather jacket cleaned. We always stay in town for the week it takes to get the little princess all clean and fresh.

Hmph.

Sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin. Ask me if I care.

Okay. All right. I'll calm down. Sounded like Frances there for a moment, didn't I? I'm not. I don't hate Dean. It's good to have a big brother like him around. It's just…being around Dean and his leather can be intimidating. I know how Sam feels sometimes. They used to spar when they were kids. Dean always dusted Sam, no problem, and naturally when Sam got that growth spurt he thought the tide had turned.

He thought wrong.

Sure, Dean has to work a little harder at it, but he can _still_ kick Sam's ass. Most days.

I don't like all that confusion. They're brothers. We can all get along here. Why can't my people get along?

Sorry. I _had_ to say that.

I stay in the duffel with the rest of Sam's stuff. I keep to myself. The new duffel's quiet. Doesn't say much. I don't think he's that way because of what happened to Frances. That's just the way the new guy is. Thank God.

That Jerry's got a big mouth, but if you think I'm gonna cross him, think again. I don't wanna end up as a grease rag when Dean gives the Impala a tune up.

I'm not the only jacket Sam owns. He's got others. One blue denim, another dark brown. We're all sensible, you know? The wildest part of Sam's wardrobe is that black suit and tan trenchcoat he wears when he plays Let's Me And My Older Brother Pretend We're Feds/Cops/Whatever.

That black suit is so damn stuck up. Tried to have a conversation with him and he snubbed me. Guess I'm not good enough, huh? Hey, I was here _first_, you Men's Wearhouse reject. Take _that_!

Sorry. Sorry.

Me and the other jackets do our part. We keep the kid warm, he looks okay when he wears us but…

Sometimes I_ do_ wish I was made of leather. Sleek black leather. That's not Sam's style, I know that, but still…

Chicks dig cars. But they also dig the leather. Dean attracts women like a magnet when he wears his. All he's got to do his flash that smile and man, they're all over him. Not that they weren't all over him _before_. They always run their fingers over his arms and shoulders, but they do that more when he wears his leather. I mean _over _and_ over_ again.

What I wouldn't _give_ to get some action like that. Everybody likes to be touched in just the right place, in just the right way.

What? Don't look at me like that. You know it's true.

Sometimes I wonder where the heck Sam gets his clothes. Some of those shirts he wears? The one with the greyhound isn't bad. But that t shirt with the brain on the the stork legs? You know the one I'm talking about. What the heck is _that_ all about? I'm thinking maybe _that one _needs to be taken care of. Maybe Tony and Dom could wrap _him_ up in a fish too…

Oops. I said_ too_ much.

_Damn._

_

* * *

**A/N:**_ "Sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin" – taken from the movie _Anger Management_, spoken by Dean's main man, Jack Nicholson. Also, I've been thinking (which is _never_ a good thing) That purple plaid shirt of Dean's is plenty emo, and he always makes an appearance whenever Dean gets emotional. We might hear from him…ah, it…heck, might be a her!..in the next few days. I'm on a roll here, y'all. Next up is Dean's boots, for Phoebe. Will post that one tomorrow. sylia91, I have no problem doing Sam's hoodie and his poor little orphan shoe. Your wish is my command. Might even do the other shoe too. I can't believe Dean would have left a man, uh, I mean, a shoe behind. I'm open to requests!


	33. Save a Horse, Ride a Winchester

**_A/N:_** Dang. Over two hundred reviews? ****Does happy dance*** Thank you, thank you all!

**_A/N #2:_** And now: Dean's boots. If you're looking for dignified, you came to the wrong place. This is for Phoebe. I worry about you. I really do. _I'm _supposed to be the twisted one, remember? Chapter title bastardized from the song _Save a Horse, Ride A Cowboy_ by Big & Rich. Also, if anyone knows Dean's (or Jensen's) shoe size, and it's _not_ 11, drop me a line and I'll change it.

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

We've been in graveyards, jail cells, haunted back roads, churches, basements and abandoned factories, just to name a few. We love it when the boys do B&E. That's _Breaking and Entering_ to all you civilians out there. All those interesting places, and we get to go _everywhere_.

We hate friggin' sewers. Do we _really_ have to spell out why?

We hate rats too. Friggin' bastards _love_ to chew on leather.

Not gonna bore you about the hunts. That's _not_ what you wanna hear, right? Yeah, we know Dean's leather jacket didn't wanna tell you about the ladies. Said that was private, none of your business, huh?

Well, if you want the_ real_ story, we're the pair you wanna talk to. And who are you talking to, you might ask? We're a pair of Caterpillar "Akon" black leather work boots, size 11. Our product line is nothing but quality, because we're the third pair Dean's bought.

Way I understand it, our predecessors made the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. Let's have a moment of silence, please.

Okay. That's enough of _that_.

I'm the right boot, the dominant one. My brother's the left. He's shy, so _I'm _doing all the talking. For the past year and a half we've been kicked underneath beds in at least one city or town in nearly every state of the union. Might not seem like much fun, but trust us, you get an earful down there.

And I got a real vivid imagination.

Well yeah, the jacket's a part of the thrill the ladies get when they see Dean, but me and my bro' are just as important. You ever heard the expression, "no feet, no horse"? Same thing for a human. If we weren't comfortable, Dean wouldn't be able to swagger. Or run. Swaggering and running are important skills to have in this line of work.

One thing I will say for the kid, he genuinely likes every woman he's _ever_ been with. He doesn't just sweet talk them so that he can get in their pants.

Well, wait a minute.

Oops. Heh.

Yeah. Yeah, he _does_. If you can't score a little nookie after saving the world, what's the point?

Believe me, the babes always end up having a real good time. Dean's playful, considerate…damn, the boy loves women. He loves the way they feel, the sounds they make when he touches them.

Okay, _why _are you giggling like that? You asked us, right? We're telling you. _Geez_.

Lefty told me one time that he thinks Dean treats females with respect because of his Mama.

Whoa.

Naturally my mind went straight to the gutter when I heard that one. That's a little _too _heavy for me. I like to watch and listen. Think? Not so much. Thinking's bad for ya'.

Look, just don't ask us about that waitress down in Florida, okay? Just another reason Dean hates that state, all right? He put us to good use that night. We ran like hell and I can't say I blame him.

Don't ask…just…_don't_.

I'm getting off track here. You even made me forget to use the editorial "we".

Now, where was I? We. Where_ were_ we?

Oh, yeah, the women.

Cassie? She and Dean had sex each and every day.

And night.

Jealous? Knew you would be. Cassie was okay in my book until she ditched Dean. Wasn't that surprised when we ended up back underneath her bed after she called Dean for help. See, that's what I'm saying, Dean's got a big heart. Let's face it, who wouldn't want to knock boots with him again?

What? Knock boots. Isn't that what you fleshies say?

Next question?_ We know what it is_.

Has Dean ever had sex with his boots on? Yep. Her name was Alice Nichols. She was a sheriff's deputy in Putnam, Montana, of all places. We were in a stable. Talk about save a horse, ride a cowboy. Lefty started giggling so hard he threw off Dean's rhythm and I had to tell bro' to shut the heck up.

Lisa Braeden was nice. Nice and bendy. Lord, was that woman bendy. You should have seen the look on Dean's face: wide-eyed and amazed. Of course, she had the same breathless look on her face too once he got rolling. Boy knows a trick or two. Lisa insisted that Dean take us off and leave us by the front door. Didn't matter. We had a clear view of nearly _everything _that went on that weekend. Dean padded around the house barefoot the entire time.

Barefoot and stark naked.

Lefty…what? Dude, if you don't stop poking me I swear I will lash you with my shoelace.

No. I don't wanna talk about _him_.

Couldn't we talk about all the doors we've kicked down? All the fuglies Dean's nailed in the nuts? There was that damn ghoul in Silver City, New Mexico. Man, the look of shock on that ugly mug was priceless.

Oh, hell, I _know_ I said I wouldn't talk about the hunts…all right! Fine!

Lefty wants me to talk about Sam.

No, I _don't_ like him. I said it, okay? I don't. Kid can't hold his liquor. He's upchucked on us three times already. Well, yeah, Dean cleaned us off and polished us up, but it's the damn principle of the thing.

Three times, damn it! If three's the charm, what the hell is Sam gonna do for an encore? I mean, sure, I've had fugly guts and goo and blood splattered on me, but that's all in a day's work. Sam blows chunks like that little chick in The Exorcist. Pea soup's on my shit list, right up there with rats and sewers.

That's not funny. Stop laughing!

Sometimes I think that Lefty should have been Sam's shoe instead. They're both emo. Late at night, when Dean's asleep, we can see Sam tossing and turning in his bed. Sometimes he'll lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling. Angsting. Always angsting.

Haven't had much contact with Sam's shoes. Hell, if they're anything like that damn Frances, I don't wanna hear anything they might have to say. They're some big sonsabitches, too. We think they have their own zip code.

Dean senses it. The angst, I mean. He already _knows_ Sam's Bigfoot.

Pay attention, will ya?

Dean tries to hook the kid up with women. Get him laid, relieve some of that tension. That's what Sam _needs_, all right.

Hey, look, we know that sooner or later we're gonna wear out and get tossed into the trash. Lefty gets a little maudlin on me about that, but he gets over it pretty quick. It's a fact of life, okay? That doesn't mean that Dean doesn't take care of us. We get cleaned and polished on a regular basis. Dean touches us up with leather dye when we need it, but hey, it's not the years that get ya', it's the mileage. When that day comes, knowing Dean the way we do, he might try some repairs to keep us going a little while longer, but if that doesn't work and the credit cards are good (and they usually are) then it's adios Winchesters and hello landfill.

We understand that. _Everything_ has an expiration date. Just takes longer for some to get to theirs, that's all. You really think Jerry doesn't think about rust? He does sometimes. Why worry about something that's going to happen anyway?

Dean gets it. Hey, he doesn't think he'll live to see thirty.

Forty? What, are you insane? In _this_ line of work? He doesn't spend his time bitching and moaning about that, and neither do we.

Life's too damn short.

* * *

**_A/N:_** I'm making a list, and checking it twice: Sam's hoodie, Dean's crossbow, Castiel's raincoat, the EMF Reader, Dean's box of cassettes, Sam's Klaww knife, Dean's emo purple plaid shirt, Dean's flashlight, Sam's lock pick set, and Sam's orphan shoe. I can't believe Dean would leave a man, I mean, a shoe behind. More to come.


	34. Elroy

_**A/N:**_ Getting to say what's on your mind is priceless. And for everything else, there's Mastercard. Here's Elroy.

* * *

Dean carries me around in his wallet. He never uses me. I feel like screaming sometimes: Come on kid, swipe me, damn it! That's what I was put here for, right?

I'm the last credit card John Winchester ever had. I was issued by the good folks at MasterCard in late 2005. Name? Well, let's just call me Elroy. Elroy McGillicuddy's the name stamped on my front.

It's been three years since Papa John passed on, and I'm still good. At least I will be until February 2010 rolls around. I expire then. John never got the chance to use me. Chances are the company will send out another card to take my place. Don't know what's gonna happen then.

Dean doesn't use me. He never does. I get pulled out of the wallet at least once a month. Dean sits there with this quiet, almost blank look on his face. It's almost like the kid can still feel John, still touch him, by touching me.

Hey, I'm not gonna get maudlin about it, all right? We got a job to do out here. I get it, but the point is, we're not hunting _all_ the time.

Thanksgiving was a bust. I mean, Dean and Sam could have taken me out, used me to buy a decent dinner for once. Turkey and dressing with all the trimmings, in a place where the food is served on real china, with real silverware. Instead they ate in Mac's Diner, near I-47 just outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Sheesh.

Yeah, the plates were real, but that damn meatloaf looked questionable.

_Very_ questionable.

Couple of weeks before Christmas Dean busted his hump playing pool. For three nights straight he won about a twelve hundred off those amateurs he was playing. A lousy $1200. I was pissed. I'm worth $2500. $2500 worth of credit in his wallet, and he won't pull me out.

I was _made_ to be used, okay?

Christmas wasn't bad. Not bad at all, but Dean should have used me and kept his cash in his pocket. I knew why he didn't. Sam always gets depressed around this time of the year. That stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas always reminds him of what he had and lost, I guess.

The motel room we were in wasn't the usual level of skeez that the boys enjoy most of the time. We were at the Holiday Inn this time. That should have given me a clue, but I was still pissed off. I didn't put two and two together until later.

And I was distracted by Sam's bitchface. He can blister paint with that thing.

Dean ignored it all. Sam sat hunched over his laptop at that table near the window, and he didn't even look up when Dean put on his coat and walked out.

Forty five minutes later Dean walked back in, threw a white lace tablecloth on the table, right over the laptop. Sam growled at him until he realized: WTF? Lace?

_Not_ plastic.

Dean walked back out to the Impala, came back a few minutes later with white boxes stacked in his arms.

Food.

Turkey. Dressing. Pumpkin pie. Cranberry sauce.

He had plates in a box. I mean real China plates. Silverware. And that wasn't all.

He had this battery operated lighted mini Christmas tree balanced on the top of the boxes. He reached up, flipped the switch, set the tree in the center of the table. Then he put the rest of the boxes on the table and tossed Sam this big white box with a pink bow.

You should have seen the look on Sammy's face: "B-Bu-but I didn't get you anything, Dean---"

All Dean did was grin. He had his present already and don't think for a moment he didn't know it.

Sam sat there staring at this chocolate brown jacket when he opened the box. The jacket was brand new. Heavy, nice material, not too flashy. It was pure Sam. There was a thick blue sweater underneath, and sandwiched between the two? A Malibu Barbie doll.

It's been a traditional gag gift for Sam since he was nine. Crazy kids.

I almost forgot to mention the eggnog and the two bottles of booze. We didn't have to travel the next day, so it was all good.

And all gone.

Look, don't preach to me about commercialism or any of that other crap. I'm plastic, remember? Some people think credit cards like me are the source of evil in this world.

Huh. You chumps don't _know_ evil.

Yeah, bah humbug. Whatever.

Well, there's always New Year's. Maybe Dean will pull me out then, buy some booze. I'd settle for party hats, confetti and noisemakers.

And porn.

I can only hope.

* * *

Next one? Might do Sam's POV on the Barbie dolls, maybe later on today. Sammy angst! Another one tomorrow. Who's gonna show up? Darned if I know.


	35. Sam's Very Barbie Christmas

_**A/N:**_ And now, Sam Winchester explains why he's the boy who really _doesn't _hate Christmas. This is all SciFiNutTx's fault. I blame her, and you should too, for Dean's "nookie" remark directed at Sam in this chapter, and a lot of the stuff in the next chapter, especially about what goes on in the Impala's trunk.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Supernatural _or _Barbie_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit. If you sue me, you won't get much.

* * *

Sapphire Barbie was the first one. Christmas, 1991.

It was the thought that counted. I never forgot that my big brother busted his hump to give me a Merry Christmas when I was a kid. Never forgot he tried to comfort me in his own way when I found out that shadows have teeth and there really were things hiding out there in the dark. That was the year I finally realized how fucked up our family really was.

Dean tried his best to make me feel better, but he was thirteen at the time and I was nine. I didn't have the faith in Dad that Dean had. I guess Dean had to feel that way about him, to be able to keep his own sanity. I mean, for him to think otherwise, that Dad made mistakes, that he could get killed by the things we hunt, and that he couldn't protect Mom or us from monsters?

That's a damn heavy load for a kid to bear, but Dean dealt with it. I couldn't.

I get it now. I didn't back then. I couldn't see any other way but my way. Yeah, I always gave Dean a hard time about Dad. I don't do that anymore.

Anyway, about the Barbies.

I don't remember what I did with the first one. Dean boosted it from this house down the street, and I thought about taking it back. I was going to throw it over the fence into the back yard, with the rest of the stuff he took, but then I decided that maybe that wasn't very smart, so I didn't. Dad came home beat all to hell a few days after Christmas. We waited until he felt well enough to drive, and then we hit the road.

The one bright spot about that Christmas was my gift to Dean. I gave him the amulet that Bobby wanted me to give Dad. Dad didn't deserve that. Dean did. His face lit up when I gave it to him. He was happy. After all he'd done for me, I wanted to see Dean smile, and he did. He's worn the amulet ever since.

We were in Baltimore, Maryland for Christmas next year. The way I remember it, we were alone, as usual. Dad was out on a hunt. So what else was new, huh? Singing carols and all that other stuff? Putting down salt lines at the windows and doors was more like it.

There was a tray of ice cubes and a moldy, wrinkled lemon in the refrigerator. Like I told you, Christmas never has been a Hallmark moment for me.

Christmas Eve Dean tucked his gun into his back waistband and slipped a stocking cap and his lock pick set into his jacket pocket.

Don't ask, don't tell seemed pretty good to me. So I didn't. I hunkered down in front of that crappy old television, pretended to watch _Rocky and Bullwinkle_ and prayed that God would let my brother come back, alive, safe, and in one piece.

Several hours later Dean strolled in with a bag of groceries. We had turkey deli sandwiches that night. They were pretty good, too.

I never asked Dean where he got the money. I knew what he did to get it. I was just relieved he came back.

I got Teen Talk Barbie that year. God, I hated that doll. "Math is tough!" my ass.

Dad came home the next day and we rolled out of there January second. Another town, another hunt.

I got a Barbie for Christmas from 1993 to 1999. The dolls were always new, too, or at the very least, in gently used condition. I always got the doll and one or two other presents. Sometimes it was books, one time it was a brand new watch. I've still got that one. It was one of the few things I had that didn't burn up in the fire.

's funny, all this time I've been pestering Dean about sharing his feelings, and now I don't want to share mine.

Don't ask me any more about Jess, okay?

Anyway. Dean always gave the doll to me when Dad wasn't around. We'd be alone in our room later on and he'd dump the doll on my lap or my chest as I stretched across my bed. "Here, Samantha. Look at the purty pink wrapping paper."

I'd roll my eyes at him and pull out my bitchface: "Dude. Seriously? I'm not a kid. I'm not a girl. I know that's hard for you to remember, but work with me on this, will ya?"

The way Dean grinned when I said that was almost as good as the way he smiled when I gave him that amulet.

Didn't get any Barbies from 2000 to 2004. I was at Stanford, remember? I gotta admit, I missed getting the dumb things, you know? Never mentioned it to Jess.

What? You don't mention that kind of thing to your girlfriend, okay? She might think it was cute, but I didn't want to share that bit of information.

Sometimes I wish I had told her.

We were staying at the TreeTop Inn Christmas Eve 2005. I walked in on Dean and Wonder Woman Barbie that night. She was having a wardrobe malfunction with that golden breastplate of hers.

First and only time I ever saw Dean blush.

Christmas 2006 Dean got me NASCAR Barbie and a sweater when we were up in Montana.

We exchanged gifts. Porn magazines. Stuff for the Impala. I got Dean this special edition knife one year. Looks like the one we saw on Buffy the Vampire Slayer that time, but I had an Anasazi protection symbol engraved on both sides of the blade. I maxed out one of my credit cards, but it was worth it. Dean says he's gonna use it on Bigfoot if he ever sees one. I know he's full of it. Bigfoot aren't real.

I got Veterinarian Barbie the next year. Little Rock, Arkansas. Dean pretended the plastic puppy and kitten was a werewolf and a sabertooth tiger in a deathmatch. It was all part of the Circle of Life.

I let him get away with that one.

We couldn't get Dean out of the deal. After I buried him in that grove of trees I went out and killed everything supernatural within a twenty five mile radius.

Dean came back from hell months later, and I'll be damned if he picked up right where he left off. I was sitting at the table with my laptop when he strolled up to me, his right hand filled with wrapping paper. Pink, naturally.

"Hey, figured you could use a little help on the nookie front now that you lost that demon connection." Dean waggled his eyebrows at me and smirked.

I let him have my best bitchface and snarled at him as I ripped the paper open.

I saw her face and stopped snarling.

Black Canary Barbie.

_Damn._ I mean…_damn._

Black leather, fishnet stockings. I swear when I looked at her it was like she was undressing me with her eyes.

She…she winked at me.

No. Couldn't be. I'm not feeling well. That's it. Couldn't be anything else, right? I've had a really bad cold for the last few days. Over the counter cold medicine makes me high sometimes. Yeah, that's…that's probably what this is all about. I mean, after all, Dean gave her to me.

_It's okay._

_Damn._

* * *

Dean and I are half a state away from Bobby's. Supposed to be a job waiting for us, but Dean really thinks Bobby just wants us around for New Year's. It's okay.

There's only one thing wrong. I don't remember putting the doll in my duffel when we packed up. I hope I didn't leave her there.

This feels awkward and selfish, but I don't want to give her away. She's got legs that go all the way up to her neck. Blonde hair. I like her smile.

She'll turn up when we get to Bobby's. I know she will. I'm going to keep her.

I usually give the dolls away, to little girls I see on the street, at the library, in the park or the laundromat. Sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the parents look at me like I'm a perverted creep or something, no matter how much I smile and back away.

I gotta pay it forward, just like Dean does. Yeah, he'd probably roll his eyes, call me Haley Joel and remind me how that movie ended if I ever mentioned it to him. So I don't.

I bitch just enough to make Dean happy every year. If I didn't, he'd stop.

And I don't want him to do that.

What? No, I didn't tell you her name.

And I'm not going to.

* * *

Sam's latest girl toy speaks her mind. Next.


	36. The Black Canary Speaks

_**And now:**_ Sam's latest girl toy, the Black Canary Barbie, speaks her mind. I repeat, most of this is SciFiNutTx's fault.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Supernatural_ or _Barbie_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

The night before I had to listen to all that bitching and complaining coming from the action figure aisle. Yeah yeah, so those blue cat people from that Avatar flick were on the shelves, and the GI Joes took offense to that. Joe's nice, but he's all hat and no cattle. Big talker. Those big shiny guns don't really mean a thing. They're not real, remember? Some of those blue cat folks had spears, sharp teeth and claws.

Just as it was going to get interesting, the store opened up and the humans arrived for another day in working paradise.

Right after that some of my sister Barbies started complaining. "Oh, when am I going to plan my dream wedding?" "Does this dress make me look fat?" "Teeheehee."

Whenever that happens I always feel like clawing my brains out. Getting shoplifted starts looking pretty good then, believe me. Always figured I'd take my chances if that ever happened.

About ten thirty in the morning things got really interesting.

We don't usually get many lookers in our neck of the woods. Kids, mostly, and the few men who do slink in always look pale and grossly overweight, like they escaped from their parents' basement. Dean was a surprise. Bow legs, light stubble and leather. He didn't look like he'd have any trouble getting a girlfriend, but you never know, right? He might have issues.

He picked me off the shelf. And then he walked a little ways down the aisle and picked up another box, held us up side to side.

I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I couldn't move because the twist ties held me down inside the box. Good thing too, 'cause otherwise I would have blown my cover, ripped my way out of the box and kicked her skanky ass.

It was me or that damn Hannah Montana. Oh, I can't stand that bitch.

I stared at Dean, and he stared at me. I stuck my chest out a little more. His eyes roamed all over my black leather jacket, fishnet stockings, and those kickass black and silver boots of mine.

My smile got a little wider._ Come on, big boy. Who you gonna take home, me or that no talent skank?_

Dean smiled like he heard me.

Hannah cursed a blue streak when he put her back on the shelf. I raised my hand just enough to blow her a kiss. "Bye bye, _loser_."

Dean didn't see a thing. He took me to the cashier, paid for me and we left. I could hear the others whispering all around me on the drive in, but Dean couldn't. Sounded like the voices were coming from this cigar box halfway underneath the front seat.

"Hey, look! Who's the new chick?"

"Another damn Barbie. We've seen 'em come and we've seen 'em go…"

I was getting an attitude by that time. Let me get out of this damn box and I'll show you who's going.

I forgot all about that when I laid eyes on Sam. His eyes, ohhhh…they're the deepest blue green color I have ever seen. His eyes got soft and misty as he stared down at me, and I knew right then and there that he felt the same way about me.

Sam and I were meant to be together, otherwise Dean wouldn't have picked _me_. I wasn't the only Black Canary Barbie on that shelf.

It just kept getting better and better.

Sam took me out of the box and held me for the longest time. He's got the biggest, softest hands. Dean took over the television remote, sprawled out in the easy chair as he channel surfed and tried not to laugh.

Later on Sam put me in his duffel bag that night. I smelled his clothes. Yeah, that's what I said. I was in the duffel with the clean clothes, so I snuggled up against his undershirts, his tighty whities and his socks. He uses Gain Fresh Awakenings Detergent. Well, he did the last time he did laundry. Smelled like Sam heaven.

Halfway through the night I got bored and undid the zipper and snuck out. Both boys were sound asleep. I climbed into his bed and ran my fingers through his hair. I pecked him on the lips.

It was just as I thought. He's got some soft old lips.

When he woke up I was sitting up on his pillow.

Dean blinked. "Dude. Uh, you want me to go for a walk or something?" Dean did this handflap. "A longgg walk?"

Sam just stared at him, and Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Y'know. Morning wood? Let you two kids have some quality time?"

I'm liking Dean more each day.

Sam growled and threw his pillow at him.

* * *

We left the next day. Sam and Dean were busy packing up, so I slipped into the trunk of that big black car.

I met the folks.

They weren't too thrilled about me at first. Kept talking about Frances. I don't know who that is.

Jerry's funny. I like him. "If you wanna stay, sweetness, you gotta understand the ground rules around here. How d'ya feel about Dean?"

"He's okay. I like him. I belong to Sam."

Angelina sniffed.

"Good deal." Jerry leered. "Love those boots of yours, babe."

Tony and Dom asked me to rub a drop or two of oil into their stocks. They said the cold air made their wood ache. Well, I could never say no to something like that. I have mad skills and talented fingers. Tony kept saying, "Oh yeah baby, a little lower, that's it. Oh sweetheart, I think I'm in love, you hear me?"

Dom just shivered all over when I touched him.

Maxine watched us like a hawk. Don't think she liked me putting my hands on Dom like that. She told me later on she really didn't care one way or another about me, as long as Sam spends more time with her and not some _doll_.

She's quiet and bitchy. I like that.

I rubbed a little oil into Jerry, too. He's ticklish.

Bronson told me that I could wax his barrel anytime.

Angelina just stared at the guys and snorted. "Perverts."

I could hear Bruce laughing inside his leather case. He has a nice laugh, deep and growly, like Dean's.

Angelina still won't speak to me, but that's okay. Leotie said that maybe it was a good thing to have someone around who had legs and hands and fingers.

Jerry told me that I should never let Sam or Dean see me move around. Well, duh. I know the drill, but if it makes Jerry feel better telling me, that's fine. He told me about the whole hunter thing, said I ain't seen nothing yet.

Hope he's right.

Sam found me the next morning, when the boys finally stopped at this Bobby Singer's place. I laid out in the open and didn't move when I heard Dean put his keys in the trunk.

"Hey," Sam smiled down at me when the trunk was opened. "Hey. There you are." He was happy to see me.

Dean snickered. "Yep, there's your girlfriend. You named her yet?"

Sam blushed red as he picked me up. "No. No I haven't."

"And that means you did," Dean huffed as he snagged his and Sam's duffels and closed the trunk. He put one hand on Sam's shoulder. "There's no shame in being a sucker for hard plastic, grasshopper," Dean nodded solemnly. "No shame at all."

Sam blushed red all the way to the tips of his ears.

I've got a whole new life now, way better than anything I ever could have had suffering through tea parties with little Suzie or being groped by some sleaze in a wrinkled tan raincoat.

And yeah, Sam did name me.

You can call me Jess.

* * *

**A/N:** I have a correction to make. Dynetyven wanted to see Sam's suicidal condom. The scary thing is, my muse is working on it. Dean's condom will still make an appearance (inquiring minds wanna know about that waitress down in Tampa), as will Dean's box of cassette tapes, Sam's lock pick set, Sam's Claw knife, Dean's purple plaid shirt, Castiel's raincoat…that's only part of the list. I don't know who is going to show up next. I plan on posting the next _Good Country People_, _Coyote's Tale_, _Fresh Meat_, and _Who Let the Dogs Out_ on Friday. _Man's Best Friend_ will be posted either Friday or Saturday, along with _Black Horse_ and others. See ya!


	37. Sonny

_**Now:**_ Sonny, Dean's EMF Meter (Phantom Traveller)

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

I liked all kinds of music. Still do. A little Beethoven, some Whitney Houston, Rolling Stones…

What, you thought I belonged to Dean?

Nope.

I belonged to a college kid named Allison Deever. She was a good kid. Worked as a housekeeper at the Blue Moon Motel in Boise, Idaho on summer break. She used to listen to me while she cleaned the rooms. Heck, she took me everywhere with her, until that day I slipped out of her pocket and hit the bathroom floor while she was on the job.

I knew I was broken the moment I hit. I bounced. The music stopped, and one of my circuit boards cracked.

I was headed for the dumpster; I knew that. Allison put me on the table while she collected her cleaning stuff and put it on the cart. She forgot about me; wasn't like her to leave things laying around like that. Used to wonder about that, but now I think maybe it was just fate, because a day later Dean Winchester walked into the room, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Dean took me apart. He spent hours just sitting there staring at my insides spread across that table. Did that freak me out? Hell yeah. Felt like I was back in the factory again. Kinda figured he wasn't just trying to get me working again. Kid had other ideas. He'd leave me like that, come back hours later with stuff from Radio Shack and who knows where else. I didn't know what the hell this kid was up to. I mean, I figured a geek would have taken me apart, but he didn't look like a geek. No Coke bottle glasses, no white pocket protectors, just the stubble and the leather, and good grief, I have never seen so many guns and knives in my entire life.

He took a lot out of me, but he put more in. He used drills and soldering irons on me. I knew there wouldn't be any more music inside me. Not after he got through.

Not gonna talk about that part anymore. Let's just say it wasn't exactly a fun time and leave it at that.

Dean bought new headphones for me, and I was field-tested the next damn day. We were after this 'geist.

I didn't know what a poltergeist was at the time. I learned pretty quick, though, when I heard this god awful wailing noise and those lights Dean added to me started flashing. At first I didn't make the connection, then I realized I was the one making that noise.

We walked away from that one with a minimum amount of damage. The thing we were hunting?

Didn't.

The folks in the trunk call me Sonny, by the way. Dean didn't name me. What, you thought he would? Nah. Does that bother me? Not really. I was just glad he didn't toss me into the trash. The idea of being in a landfill really doesn't appeal, y'know?

No, they call me Sonny because some of them got the brand name wrong. I'm a Sony Walkman Radio. _Sony_, not _Sonny_, but the name Sonny stuck, and I didn't bitch much about it. I'm not the only EMF reader the boys have, but I've been with Dean the longest, so I get much respect for that. I worked that Phantom Traveller gig with him and Sam, and speaking of Sam? The next job we were on I _saved_ his ass.

So much for "homemade" and "busted up", buddy.

I take one job at a time. It's not a bad life.

But sometimes, oh yeah, I really miss the music that was inside me.

* * *

Who's next? I still have the list. Platinum Rose Lady, haven't forgotten about you and Sam.


	38. The Color Purple

_**A/N:**_ Yep, we're back. And now: Dean's favorite plaid shirt. Chapter title taken from Alice Walker's classic book, _The Color Purple_.

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment, and not for profit.

* * *

Yeah, I'm purple. Purple plaid. What, you got a problem with that? Bet you thought I'd be all soft and squishy and emo, huh? Figures.

I mean, why's it so impossible that a kid like Dean would have a shirt like _me_?

Don't mind me, okay? I get a little prickly sometimes, especially about Dean. That's just the way I am.

First time I saw him was in that Wal-Mart superstore just outside of Beresford, Ohio. He had on that leather jacket and he walked in like he owned the place. His face was all bruised up and he had this hard glint in his eyes. Right then and there I wouldn't have given a nickel for my chances of staying in one piece. Figured I was gonna get ripped all to hell, end up as a rag he'd use to polish his car. Dean picked me up, paid for me, and away we went.

I gave myself six weeks, and I gotta tell ya, I was being optimistic.

First thing we did was swing by a laundromat. I was put through the delicate cycle, and Dean threw in some fabric softener too. Just a little. No, not that Snuggle stuff, either. You're kidding me, right?

I didn't find out about how he hates that fuzzy little SOB until later. We still have to hunt that little bitch down. The boys have been busy lately, but we'll find the time.

Anyway, that first day? None of that surprised me. Some folks can't wear new clothes right out of the store. Dean didn't strike me as being the type with sensitive skin, but hey, you never know. I went through the dryer and when he took me out he looked at me funny. His eyes were wet.

I didn't know what to think.

He picked up Chinese take-out next. When we got to the motel room (and it _was _skeezy, so why'd you ask?) Dean took a shower, slipped on clean clothes. And me.

I got it then. The kid was sad. I mean, I could feel it in his skin. Sure, he went through the motions, but I never felt sadness from a human like that before. He pulled out that duffel bag of his and started cleaning knives and guns after he ate. I damn near had a heart attack when I saw all of that. I was really hoping the kid wasn't a serial killer or something. He stretched out across his bed and watched television after that. I didn't pay much attention to what was on. Shocked the hell out of me when he wore me to bed that night.

I found out about the family business the next day.

Me and the Impala got to talking. She's been here the longest, her and Jerry. The way she told it, Dean's kid brother Sam left to go to Stanford two years before. Dean hunted with his Dad all that time. At one point Big John tossed him the keys to the Impala and told him, "You're on your own, kiddo. We can cover more ground if we split up."

Two weeks after that Dean went out and bought me. According to the Impala Dean's mom wore a purple plaid shirt sometimes, back in Lawrence, when Dean was a kid.

Do I really need to draw you a picture? Didn't think so.

We were out on our own for two damn years. I got a lot of use, still do. On laundry day he washes me separate from the others, makes sure that the water's just right, and the dryer's not too hot, just right. He doesn't want my color to fade, and so far it hasn't. I know now that I'll be around for a long time.

Dean's never worn me out on a hunt.

I guess I feel like comfort. I feel like home. Everybody needs a soft place to fall, even for a night or two. That kinda makes me feel all warm inside, you know? Everybody likes to feel that they're needed, too.

Well, anyway, that's about it. Now if you don't mind, I'm gonna hang around when you go talk to some of Sam's clothes. I really wanna hear what you're gonna ask that weird ass tee shirt of his, the one with the brain and the stork legs. I know these boys go in for mostly flannel and blue jeans, but that shirt's just _wrong_, on so many levels.

One more thing? I better not hear or see this anywhere else. Dean's got a rep to uphold.

Tony, Dom and Jerry owe me favors. I'll call 'em in if I have to.


	39. No Shoe Left Behind

**_A/N:_** I know I'm behind answering reviews and updating my other stories. I apologize; please bear with me. Things are about to get a whole lot better.

And now: Sam's tennis shoes.

* * *

Sam didn't name us. Well, he doesn't name all his stuff, you know.

I've always had more luck than my baby brother. I came into the world minutes before he did. We're a pair, y'know, so just like with you humans that makes me his big brother.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. We're a mated pair, so I should refer to him as my mate, right?

_Ewww._ Frances was right about one thing: you humans keep your minds in the gutter, don't you?

You want our stats? Okay. Sam bought us at Target. We were on sale. 49.99, regularly 69.99. We're size 13. Hey, Sam's a big kid, and he's got big feet. We've got a padded collar and tongue, cushioned insoles for long-term support. We're synthetic through and through. Upkeep's simple: either hose us off or throw us in the washer. Sam's got flat feet. No arch at all, so we have additional arch support built right inside. All of Sam's shoes do. No hunter, no feet. Them's the rules we live by.

You want to know what it's like being with a hunter? It's long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. I can't even begin to name how many critters have chased us. We've been splattered with human vomit, fugly guts, and just about anything else you can imagine, and quite a few things you really _don't _want to imagine. So Dean's work boots were crying about Sam upchucking on them?

What are you guys, four? Grow up.

We get taken care of on laundry day just like everybody else. Sam always puts the blessed medal of St. Ignacious in with us, from the washer to the dryer. Old Ignacious knows his stuff. All evil residue gets wiped clean, believe me. We've never had any trouble in that department.

I gotta admit stuff does seem to happen to my brother more than me. I don't know why. One day Bobby Singer's mutt decided to use him as a chew toy.

Course now, Sam's foot was still inside Junior at the time.

Why'd that dog _do_ that? Heck if I know. Hey, I have a hard enough time understanding humans. Canines? Please. Do I look like the Dog Whisperer to you?

One day Sam was standing next to this open sewer grate. I said _daytime_, and you'd think that broad open daylight would mean everything was safe, _right_?

_Wrong._

I saw wet pinkish grey skin and bug eyes and the next thing I knew my brother was yanked down into the sewer.

This imp, this...gremlin thing was humping the hell out of him. And not in a good way, either.

Dean pulled out that Desert Eagle of his, aimed, and blew Humpy's head clean off.

I figured we were both done then. I mean, who in their right mind would want to go to all that trouble just to retrieve a shoe? Dean won big at poker the night before, so I knew he had the cash. He wouldn't have any problem buying Sam anything he wanted or needed. Didn't happen that way.

"You sure about this, Sammy?" Dean said.

Sam's bitchface came out. It was glorious. "I _want _my shoe, Dean. I _like _that shoe. It's _comfortable_."

Dean shrugged. "Okay then."

Dean and Sam tore that grate open and got my bro out of there.

That's one thing about it, Winchesters always return loyalty, even when maybe they shouldn't. Call it stubborn _or_ stupid.

Either way, I like it.

My brother and I got the full treatment after that. St. Ignacious, holy water, the works. Dean even threw in a protection prayer. He finished it off with, "and may nothing else bad or freaky happen to Sammy's shoes. And while you're at it, Lord, my baby bro really needs to get his own freak on more often."

"Dean!"

All Dean did was roll his eyes. "Hey, I'm just sayin'. That might be an omen."

Nothing else happened after that so maybe the protection's really working now.

Yeah, we know we're not gonna be around forever. That's not the point. Point is to enjoy ourselves along the way. It's not all doom and gloom and running and screaming. You have to enjoy the little things. Crap happened, so deal with it and move on. We're just footwear, remember? We don't _do_ emo.

One more thing.

So Dean's work boots said we're so big we got our own zip code, huh? Sounds like size envy to me. Size does matter, baby, especially in our world. Don't get me wrong, we_ like_ Dean.

We just don't like his _footwear_.


	40. Days of Our Lives Remix Jerry's POV

**A/N:** SciFiNutTX gave me the idea for John's part in this. All hail the Xover Queen of the Entire Friggin' Universe! Over 1700 reviews for WWW: _Wolverines, Wendigos, and Winchesters_! Woo-hoo!

**Disclaimer:** That said, I do not own _Supernatural_. Eric's letting me play with the boys and their toys for a while.

And now, the _Days of Our Lives Remix: Jerry's POV_

* * *

What? You back again? Go talk to those idiot cassette tapes Dean keeps in the front seat. See if you can get a word in edgewise. They make so much noise I can't hear myself think half the time.

So you wanna hear about baby Dean and big John, huh?

Okay.

Way I remember it, Dean was some kind of mover and shaker even when he was a rugrat. He was always getting into stuff. I could tell that scared Mary. John always laughed about it, until she glared at him. I'm not saying Papa was whipped, but one sharp look from her could make him fall right in line. I think it made him kinda proud, you know, that his eldest son could get in and out of places no normal kid could.

One day John was out in the driveway doing some work on the Impala. He was up front doing an oil change, so he didn't see what was going on in the back. Mary used to joke that she needed a leash for Dean, and that might have been true. The trunk was open, and Dean somehow pulled himself up and crawled in. He was about six months old.

Dean took one look at me and those little eyes of his lit up. Tried to pick me up, but you know he couldn't do it, so he started whacking at me with those pudgy little hands of his, yelling "Bam bam bam!" at the top of his lungs.

That's when I knew I really liked this kid.

Now, me and John, well, we've had our moments. First time he ever used me in anger was while he was separated from Mary. They needed space, all right, and no, I'm not going into detail why. The marriage wasn't perfect. They weren't, but they loved each other, and why the heck isn't that enough for you fleshies?

I will say the first night they were separated Big John took it hard. I mean, here he's got the woman of his dreams and this cute kid who thinks the world of him, but he's not with them. Might be a permanent separation, and that's more than enough to put funny ideas in a man's head.

The old girl made sure we didn't wrap around a telephone pole when he got behind the wheel. We drove for a long time and afterwards John got out, came around, and took me out of the trunk.

He was drinking that night. I could smell it on him.

We were at a farmhouse somewhere out in the sticks. I don't know who owned that place, but after John and I got through all they needed was for someone to knock down the walls. That was all that was left standing, and damned if John didn't try to knock down one of them, too. We busted stuff up good that night. The old girl made sure John got back to the motel in one piece.

Second time that happened was _after_ Mary died. We wanted to smash the entire world down.

Okay, that's it. I've said enough. Why don't you go talk to that freaky looking knife that Sam kid's got? You might as well move along, 'cause you're not gettin' anything else outta me.

* * *

Next up: Sam's Klaww knife.


	41. Draco

**_A/N:_** And now, Sam's claw knife.

* * *

I'm more slashy than stabby. The other knives don't know what to make of me. I get along better with Maxine and Mudd. That's okay. I'd rather have true friends than a lot of fake ones.

Look me up on the internet. I got many names. Klaww knife. Dragon's tooth. If Sam's got a special name for me, he's never told me what it is. I really like that Dragon's Tooth moniker, so you can call me Draco.

I was Sam's sweet sixteen birthday present. To Sam from Dean.

John Winchester was _not_ pleased. He took one look at me and shook his head. "That's the most damn useless thing I've ever seen."

Papa held me, made a few practice slashes in the air. I've got nice weight and balance. I could tell he knew that. Knew he wasn't going to let me stay if he thought I was going to be useless in a fight.

I've been with the Winchesters ever since.

Dean paid for me, all right. He maxed out one of his credit cards to get me, and you better believe Papa made the kid pay for that. Long distance endurance runs, digging ditches with tea spoons, you name it. He did it all, paid the price, and every time he watched Sam practice with me Dean's eyes softened.

I like Dean, always have. If it wasn't for him I'd still be stuck in the display case at that gun store. Frances would bitch about the kid and I'd give him a poke with the tip of my blade. Damn fool never did learn to keep his mouth shut. Heck, I warned him about that lots of times. You can't fix stupid.

Sam took me and Maxine to Stanford with him. Jess never even knew we were in the apartment. Never saw any action there, and I think that was the whole point. This was normal, and the life Sam had before was anything but. I think a part of him missed the life, even though he said he hated it. He'd take me out sometimes, and just sit there and stare at me. I could feel the sadness in his skin, and then I'd go right back into that box up in the closet.

I hated that box, and I hated that closet.

We were lucky to make it out of the fire. I don't remember much that night, a lot of yelling and smoke. Don't know exactly how we got out of there, either. I think Frances had something to do with that. He could move a little on his own if he was packed right. If he did roll us out of there, that just goes to prove that even a jerk can do the right thing. Of course, he was saving his own skin too.

I've been out on some hunts. My fugs are corporeal, they have to be. I'm not going along on a hunt for a vengeful spirit, so I guess you could say I'm a specialist. I get the holy water blessing too, the whole nine yards. I missed out on getting dipped in lamb's blood when he hunted that iyri up in Wisconsin. Didn't break my heart any.

When Sam picks me up and loses himself in the motion as we slash into some imaginary critter, it's a beautiful sight to see. Dean says Sam's a fiend with a knife, and he always pesters the kid to practice more.

Sam gets kind of flustered whenever Dean says that, like he knows it's true but he's embarrassed but he likes it and he likes hearing Dean say it.

Humans. When you figure them out let me know, okay?

What's my view on life? Geez, you're really nosy, aren't cha? Nobody's _ever_ asked me that.

It's simple. Sometimes you just gotta let your freak flag fly.

* * *

Thanks to Platinum Rose Lady for that comment she made in her PM about the freak flag.


	42. brain stork

_**A/N:**_ Sam's weirdo tee shirt.

* * *

I get that a lot: _What the hell was Sam thinking when he bought you?_

Gets even funnier the more I hear it.

You have to admit I'm a showstopper. When was the last time you ever saw a human brain with a pair of stork legs attached? I mean _anywhere_? That purple plaid shirt Dean wears is so…_common_. I've seen him around. Spent a wash and dry cycle with him a couple of times because money was tight. We didn't have much to say to each other. I know he doesn't like me.

I don't care. I bet ol' Purple Nurple makes it to the trash bin before I do.

The rest of these plain old rags, they're just jealous of me, that's all. They wouldn't know an original thought like mine if it came up and bit them in the ass. If they _had_ an ass, that is.

How'd Dean react first time he saw me? He raised one eyebrow, frowned, opened his mouth to say something and then stopped himself. No snark. No wisecracks. I know, I'm so magnificent that even Dean was struck speechless by my brilliance. Bobby Singer was too. Sam opened my package at his place. I came mail order, straight out of the Comfortably Weird Tee Shirt Company's catalog.

Sam hasn't worn me lately, but I don't mind that. Less wear and tear. I know I'm not going anywhere, unless we have another fire. In this line of work, that's entirely likely. I try not to think about that.

I'm not the first brain on stork legs shirt Sam ever wore. I'm the second.

Frances told me that Jess bought Sam his first one.

I miss Frances. He was really the only one I could have a decent conversation with. He shared memories of Stanford with me. Pizza parties, days spent at the library, in the lecture halls. I never had the pleasure of meeting that Jess girl, but she seemed like a nice young lady.

She had excellent taste, too.

Frances was a little too high strung though. Poor impulse control. He forgot that we have to live with these others. Sometimes it's better to keep your thoughts to yourself, but oh no, he couldn't do that.

I can. I'm not stupid.


	43. Thank You Very Much, Bob Barker

_**A/N:**_ and now for something entirely different. My muse informs me that this will be the first of two feline related installments in this series. It's a ficlet told from the POV of Pearl, a barn cat. Pearl isn't a part of the Winchester crew, but she's a friend of the boys, so I guess you could think of this as Dean and Sam's Facebook page - without all the pesky viruses and security issues.

* * *

I've seen 'em come and I've seen 'em go. Hey, this is a farm, after all. Lot of turnover. Our humans are okay, I guess. I've heard stories that other cats don't have it so good. We do. Me and my kids hang out in the barn, and as long as we keep those damn mice in their proper place my folks are happy.

My name's Pearl, by the way. So Moo, Lucy, Half Pint and the others didn't want to talk to you, huh? Well, don't be offended. We're cats, remember? We love to play aloof and hard to get. Comes with the territory, and it's part of our mystique.

I remember the first time I saw the boys. They stayed here three days. They looked like German shepherds. The big, brown shaggy dog was the younger one. Boy, he was a tall drink of water. Seemed kind of shy, though. He wibbled. You know how it is when a human's mouth goes into that thin line and starts trembling? Yep, he did that. Kept his tail down between his legs most of the time I saw him. He didn't feel comfortable until the last day too.

The big blond one was his brother. He walked in like he owned the place. Ears pricked, tail up, grinning. He was gorgeous, and he knew it. Had the longest, darkest eyelashes I'd ever seen on a dog. Friendly, though. He was a little rough around the edges, but polite. Asked me my name and all, seemed genuinely interested in everything. His brother just hung back and did that wibbling thing.

I remember now. Blondie's name was Dean. Big shaggy's name was Sam.

On the second day I let some of my kittens come around them. Dean laid on the ground and let them climb all over him. They gnawed on his ears and pulled on his tail. Dean laughed.

I like a dog like that.

A couple of the kittens started messing with Sam. He seemed startled at first, then he started playing with them. I had a good feeling about the both of 'em. Lucy says she'd never let her kids play with a dog. Lucy's a stuck up little bitch.

The humans liked them too, especially since we lost the two farm dogs about a week ago. Moose and Boomer just ran off. Why? Damned if I know. I have a hard enough time understanding cats, much less dogs. Moo can be a right royal bitch sometimes, but I like her. Half Pint? if she wasn't related to me I swear I'd swat the hell out of her.

We were out in the yard the morning of the last day. Sam had his head down in his food bowl. Dean was all stretched out on the ground and my two youngest ones, Maddy and Jerry, were stalking that big thick tail of his. Dean knew it. He kept moving his tail around, twitching the end of it down on the ground and up in the air. The kids were all over it, and I was glad they found something to play with. I really liked having the boys around, but there was something they needed to know first.

I sat down right next to Dean. "So, uh, you used to be human, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How did _this_ happen again?"

Dean frowned. "Long story. Damn witch."

"Uh huh."

"It's been three days. The spell lasts a week."

"Then you're back to being two leggers again, right?"

"Yep." Dean grinned.

I sighed, and he flattened his ears at the sound, like he knew something was up. Maddy put her paws on his chest and tried to climb up onto his back. Dean ignored her.

"Okay. I like you, kid. You and your brother, so I gotta tell you something."

Dean pricked his ears, cocked his head to one side and waited.

"This afternoon the humans are going to come around, and they're going to put you and Sam in the truck. They're gonna tell you that they're taking you for a ride. Real happy happy time. They're nice enough, as humans go, but don't believe them."

"Okay. Why?"

"Does the phrase _spay and neuter your pets_ have any meaning for you?"

Dean's eyes widened. "Oh hell no."

He got up so fast Maddy and Jerry tumbled to the ground and laid there blinking in shock.

"Ooops. Sorry."

I waved a paw at him. "It's okay. They're fine."

"We gotta go."

"I know."

"Thanks, Pearl. SAMMY!"

I looked around. Sam raised his head out of the bowl. He had so much food in his mouth he looked like a damn chipmunk.

"We gotta go. Now."

"Why?" I didn't believe it, but he was able to talk with his mouth full.

"Dude, they're gonna go all Bob Barker on us," Dean growled. His eyes went to slits. "I'm _not_ losing my boys. I'm _not_."

"Huh?" Sam blinked. "Oh. Oh! Crap!" He swallowed in a hurry then.

I pretended not to notice when Dean slunk off and Sam followed him. I laid in the sun, and I played with my kittens, and when the humans came out of the house hours later looking for the brothers I didn't say a word.

After all, I'm just a cat.

* * *

Cujo's next.


	44. Impound Lot Blues

_**The Road So Far:**_ In the last chapter Pearl, a barn cat, meets up with the boys after a witch turns them into dogs. Nana, one of my awesome reviewers, asked where the Impala was. My muse took that idea and ran with it, so here we go.

Roll Call:

Clint – Dean's Colt 1911

Jack – Dean's long blade

Bronson – Dean's Desert Eagle

Angelina – Dean's shotgun

Maxine – Sam's Taurus pistol

Mudd – Sam's shotgun

Brain – Sam's laptop

Tony and Dom – Dean's sawed off shotguns

Leotie – The dreamcatcher in the Impala's trunk

Jerry – Dean's crowbar

Bruce – Dean's sniper rifle

Draco – Sam's Klaww knife

And, of course, this one's told from the Impala's POV

* * *

I hate police impound lots. I mentioned that _before_, right?

Knew something was wrong when the boys didn't come back after a day or so. They were hunting a witch, and I could tell that neither one of them felt very good about it. Turns out this bitch was going after kids in the area, and I knew right off the bat that made her number one on Dean's hit list. He does that shallow, macho man act a little too well sometimes, but I can see right through it.

Sam can too, most of the time. They keep each other honest. That's what I like to see when they're hunting together. We stopped by Bobby Singer's place long enough to get instructions on how to kill the damned thing, and away we went.

I'm sitting in the back corner of the Hartford County Police Impound Lot. Not the worst place I've ever been, not the best either. I belong out on the open road with my boys, not wedged in between a yellow mini-van and a bright blue Hummer.

Hummers. I can't stand them. Never could. I hadn't been there ten minutes before this big lug asks me what my name is and do I come here often?

I can hear Leotie telling me to be calm, that everything's gonna be all right. I know it is. We can get through this. I know we can. Happens all the time. Nothing to worry about in our line of work.

Dean took Bronson, Tony and Jack with him, so that means Clint, Dom, and Angelina are here, and they're pissed. Sam's got John's journal. He took Maxine and Mudd with him, and a duffel filled with herbs, silver and holy water and some special metal amulets Singer gave the boys.

Some of the newbies got a little riled up after we were towed in. Well, it wasn't exactly a picnic for me either, being hooked up and towed like that. Even Draco got salty with everybody. Good thing Jerry and Clint were in the back; they got everyone to shut the hell up quick.

That first night it was so loud sometimes I couldn't hear myself think.

I didn't have bad dreams that night, either. I've got Leotie to thank for that. The others laughed when Dean put her in my trunk. He might not have known exactly _why_ he did it, he just knew that he _needed_ to. I'm grateful for that.

I hate tow trucks. And tractor trailers. And the color yellow.

And big dumb Hummers who think they're God's gift to everyone.

I _did _mention that,_ right_?

* * *

Another day.

I heard that sleaze in the office, that Finley, talking about me. He looked up my blue book value. Says I'm a classic. Well yeah, I _am_, but I'm not yours. Go get your own, buddy.

He came out here earlier today and stared me up and down. I don't usually get all dainty about stuff like that but the look on his face made me feel really dirty. Heard him tell one of the others that he plans on claiming me when I go to auction.

Yeah, right. I can already tell what kind of car owner he'd be. No tune-ups, no oil change. Preventive maintenance? What the hell is _that_? If John and Dean had been that careless I wouldn't have lasted this long.

First day we were here Finley tried to get into my trunk.

No way in hell.

I jammed the lock. Jammed the lock on the glove compartment too. He's not as dumb as he looks. Didn't want to force the lock, scar up my finish, just in case _my owner_ showed up. He and the other fools in the office figure I was stolen by some kids who took me joyriding. My owner's some classic car buff who obviously has enough cash to keep me in _near perfect _condition.

_Near perfect _my ass. I'm _perfect_.

According to Finley, said townie probably has connections in town, to the mayor or the police chief.

I didn't make any of this up. That's what Finley and his crew of monkeys think. Whatever. The only thing keeping them off me right now is the thought that my owner is coming to pick me up.

Thirty days from now, it's gonna be a whole different story.

If they pop my trunk and the glove compartment, I don't know what I'm going to do next. I can't even think about the others being pulled out of there, scattered to the four winds. Whatever's happened, whatever is _going_ to happen, is my fault. I can't help feeling that way.

* * *

I heard Leotie praying a while back. Hope it works. Hope somebody's up there listening. Maybe they are. We've had some luck so far. Nobody thought to look underneath the front bench. Told those damn IDs to shut the hell up for once, and they did. Dean's cassette tapes haven't had much to say, either.

Good.

Dean and Sam are coming back. I know they are.

It's been two weeks now. Finley's coming around to look at me more often.

"Hope your people don't come for you, pretty," he tells me. "I really want to take you home with me. Maybe I'll fix it so they can't find you, huh? Would you like that?"

At that point I really wanted to rev my engine up and run him down. I didn't.

I'm going to end up stripped down, sitting on concrete blocks in a field somewhere. I just know it.

Leotie tells me that things will work out. I'm not worried. I'm not.

Everybody deals with stress in their own way. Angelina snapped at Bruce, and he snapped right back at her. Brain's been real quiet lately. I haven't heard a peep out of Dom. I know he's worried about Tony. Even Clint's concerned about Bronson and Jack. Says that Dean should have taken him along, just in case.

I know it bothers Clint that Dean didn't.

Later on that same night, I don't even notice when the chain link fence behind me starts shaking. Damn cats. They slink around all over the place. I think I saw a coyote out here once. I just want everyone to leave me alone, that's all. It's quiet in my trunk. Even Jerry and Dom are quiet.

I feel a hand on my hood, right front bumper.

If I had lungs I would've stopped breathing just then.

It's Dean.

"Hello, baby." Dean gives me that bright, almost blinding smile of his. "Sorry it took us so long. Put a fork in Broom Hilda, 'cause she is done." His clothes are ripped and dirty. He looks pale, tired and bruised, but his eyes soften when he looks at me.

Dean goes back, opens up my trunk, and pulls out those heavy duty wire cutters.

I can feel it when Sam puts the duffels in the trunk. Bronson's home. So's Tony and Jack, Maxine and Mudd and John's journal. The boys can't hear the commotion in the trunk. Sounds like a party back there.

"So, uh, I guess this means you missed us, huh?" Tony says and Dom tells him to shut the hell up.

In the meantime Dean and Sam cut through that chain link fence.

Once the fence is down they push me out very quietly, then they slip inside and Dean turns my engine on. I usually rumble but not this time. We roll through the back lot, and when I see the highway up ahead I don't need much urging. I go right for it, and Dean laughs.

"I think she missed us, Sammy."

Sam huffs tiredly as he leans back into the seat and closes his eyes. "I missed her too."

Further up the road Dean pulls over just long enough to get out and change my plates. After that we don't stop until we cross the state line.

* * *

Dean pulls over at the first diner he sees.

Sam's stomach growls, loud and long. "Damn. I really do miss table scraps."

Dean laughs. He sounds like a kid again. They're halfway to the diner when Dean throws back his head, leans into his not so small baby brother and howls at the moon. Sam does the same thing. They bust out laughing after that. It's nice hearing them laugh like that, but I just don't get it. Maybe I'll find out later what happened.

I knew they were coming for us.

Never had a doubt.

* * *

Next up: Dean reminisces about one of his favorite hunting partners. She's six pounds soaking wet, has big green eyes and ears like Batman. Cujo's next.


	45. Kong

_**A/N:**_ We're back.

_**A/N the 2**__**nd**__**:**_ Dean and John had a very unusual hunting companion while Sam was at Stanford.

_**Disclaimer:**_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

So Jerry told you to come ask me about the cat, huh? Smart move. Don't think Dean would have told you about her anyway. You came to the right place.

Want me to start at the beginning? I can't, because I wasn't there. I was at Petsmart while all that was going on. One moment I was hanging up, attached to that damn cardboard tag, and the next moment this big calloused hand that smelled like gunpowder and salt picked me off the rack.

I'm a Kong rubber mouse. My ears are bright green and my tail is bright orange. My body's made of dull green thick rubber. I'm built to take a lot of abuse. The man who picked me up was dark and rough-looking, so I figured I was gonna be the chew toy for a pit bull, or some damn wolf–dog mix. Yeah, I know, that is what I was put here for, right? To get chewed on?

But it says "cat toy" on the damn label. Cat. Toy.

Humans don't read labels a lot of times.

We ended up in some motel room somewhere. There was this green-eyed human boy sitting on one of the beds. The one who bought me took this wicked sharp knife out of his his boot, cut the plastic strips holding me down to the cardboard. He flipped me up into the air.

If I had eyes I woulda closed them. Good thing I couldn't.

This cat leaped out from nowhere and caught me in mid-air.

I got batted around pretty good that first day. I mean that girl was all business. She grunted and growled, and the two humans sat there on the beds watching her. They were grinning like idiots.

The cat's name was Cujo. Big bad boy, right? Wrong. She was a skinny little thing, all gray fur and black stripes with four white feet. She looked like a little golden-eyed elf, with that pale face, that pink nose and those big ears. She didn't have a long tail. She had a crook of a tail, like a little finger. There's a name for cats like that, but I forget what the name is.

"Welcome to the family," Jerry told me later on. Guess I belonged then, huh? That was when I found out the kid's name was Dean, and the old guy was Dean's daddy, John. They were Winchesters.

Huh. You humans have way too many names.

So what did everybody in the trunk name me? "Kong", what else? It was a no-brainer.

Who named the cat Cujo? Jerry says Dean did.

Okay, I didn't realize Dean and John were hunters until later. When I saw all those weapons I figured bank robbers or something.

Well, at least there weren't any pit bulls or wolf dogs around.

From what Jerry told me, Cujo just showed up one day. She wouldn't leave, so the next day John and Dean took her along. Cats do that. A lot. They show up, stay a while, and then leave.

We went on the road after that. Up and down the East Coast, as I remember. They snuck Cujo inside those motel rooms. Credit cards were good, so Dean went out and bought her canned food and bags of that dry stuff. He bought her a water bowl, too, and a litter box with that gravel stuff. One day John went out a bought a barbequed deli chicken, and Cujo stared at him until he gave up both drumsticks. She wouldn't eat the burgers or any of that human food.

They took her to the vet for her shots one day. She didn't like _that_ so much. When Cujo got back she flopped down on John's bed with me in her paws, and she cussed up a storm as she gnawed on my ears.

Yeah, cats cuss. Humans cuss too, but felines cuss a heck of a lot more. I learned some new profanity that day.

Dean carried her toys in his duffel, but I was out most of the time. I was her favorite toy.

Hey, it's what I was made for, right?

I've seen my share of cheap motel rooms. I remember the time Dean and John forgot about me. We were at the Holiday Inn outside Gillespie, Montana. I was on the floor underneath one of the beds. Two minutes more and that housekeeper would have tossed me in the trash. Yeah, the humans could've gone right out and bought another rubber mouse, but they didn't. They came back for me. Dean slipped me into his duffel in the trunk. Dom's a real quiet fella, even for a shotgun, but he told me that day that Winchesters don't leave anyone behind. That means a lot. Nobody likes to be thought of as disposable.

Cujo would grab me by the tail and jump onto Dean's bed at night. If Dean was cleaning weapons and the bed was filled with knives and guns and all that other stuff, she'd sit quietly on the edge of the bed and watch Dean's every move.

She owned Papa's lap. If he was sitting there writing in his journal she'd slink up there with me in her mouth, and claim her spot. He wouldn't move until she woke up.

She wasn't Dean's cat, and she wasn't John's. They both belonged to her. When John laced up his boots Cujo would be right there, stalking those shoelaces. She did the same thing with Dean. Those damn shoelaces had to be put in their place, y'know, and she taught them what their place was every single time.

It was good to hear John and Dean laugh. Not much joy in this line of work. That wears on these humans a lot. I can tell.

Cats have big mojo, one paw in Heaven, and the other in Hell. I've heard of hunters using dogs. Well, why not a cat? I never went out on those hunts, but I was there when the three of them came back, sometimes wild-eyed, slimed with mud and fugly goo.

Cujo would howl and squall while John or Dean washed her down with holy water. I know they added some protection charms to that collar around her neck. Afterwards she'd fuss and grumble as she shook off the water. The way she kept flapping her paws around trying to get them dry was really funny. Then she'd grab me and curl up on one of the beds and go to sleep.

That Bobby Singer fella? Met him once. Seems okay, for a dog human. I was out that day when John called him on that cell phone thing: "We're coming in, Singer. Uh huh. Yeah."

John grinned a little as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Damn fool wants to see Cujo."

Cujo lay on the floor at Dean's feet. She was rabbitkicking the hell out of me, but I didn't feel anything. Dean laughed. "I bet he does."

The way I heard it, nobody believed that the Winchesters were hunting with a cat. The day we rolled into Singer Salvage, well, I wish you coulda been there.

John and Dean swaggered in like they owned the place.

Cujo did too.

We had a good time while it lasted, but everything ends. Remember I told you that cats leave?

Cujo left eight months later.

I was tucked away in Dean's duffel that day. That night I noticed Cujo wasn't there anymore. John sat down on his bed. Dean took me out of the duffel, and I could feel the sadness in his skin as he held me. He just sat there on his bed, staring down at me.

"She found her real family after all this time," John said quietly. "We had to let her go, son."

Dean just nodded. He held me in his hand as he fell asleep that night. Slipped me into his jacket pocket, carried me around for weeks after that.

I've got my own private place in that secret compartment in the trunk now. I know Dean hasn't told his brother about Cujo: that's why he stashed me there. Kid might act all macho and stuff, but he's private, too. I get that.

I'm not lonely. I get in on all the conversations. Couldn't stand Frances, and that's all I'm gonna say on that subject. I get along pretty good with everybody.

It's not the years, it's the mileage that gets you. Don't remember where I heard that one…maybe from one'a those movies that Dean likes to watch so much. I think it's true, though. I got off pretty easy. Both my ears are pretty well gnawed on, and yeah, that piece of silver duct tape around my tail isn't just for decoration. Cujo nearly chewed my damn tail off.

I've been scratched, rabbit-kicked and cuffed around. I held up pretty well, but…

Sometimes I miss all that.

I wasn't the only toy John and Dean bought for Cujo during all that time, but I'm the only one Dean kept.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ "It's not the years, it's the mileage" – said by Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark.

_**And:**_ Cujo was apparently a Manx cat.

_**The last word:**_ _Black Horse and the Cherry Tree_ will resume this week. Also a canonSPN/Black Horse two-parter _Appointment With Samirah, _Battle:LA/SPN_ but I have promises to keep_, and others.


	46. Sam's wallet

**_Chapter 46 - Sam's wallet_**

So what do I carry? Usual stuff. Credit cards. One of the cards has the name David Matthews. Got Sam's ID with that name on it, too. I.P. Freeley is on the ID and the credit card Dean gave Sam that time.

_Why_ are you giggling like that?

There's folding money sometimes, if things are going right. It's usually feast or famine with these two. Dean usually slips in a wad of bills the morning after he hits it big at pool or poker.

Those condoms came from Dean too. Big surprise, huh? I think that kid buys 'em in bulk.

What'd you say? Does Sam get any action?

Dang, the others were right. You guys sure are nosy. No comment. If those mouthy shoes of his didn't tell you which beds they spent the night underneath, I'm sure in the heck not going to.

Anyway, Sam's student ID from Stanford is in here too. I figured he'd pitch that one when he and Dean went back on the road, but he didn't. Keeps it separate from the others, tucked away in the back. It's not my place to ask why.

Yeah, I was there when Sam was at Stanford. I saw more money, less fake IDs back then. Sam worked part-time jobs to bring in the cash. I remember that Jess. She was always slipping notes in me, mushy stuff like "I Heart You" and some such like that. He liked that. I could tell. She made him happy.

There's nothing special about me. Plain brown leather, usual number of compartments. Kinda worn around the edges. That's pretty damn good when you figure that I was in Sam's jacket pocket the night of the fire.

When Sam slips me into in his duffel bag and puts me in the trunk that's how I know the boys are on a hunt. I get along with the folks in the trunk, the rest of Sam's stuff, and the new duffel. He doesn't have a name yet, but I know that's coming. He's quiet. He does his job. That's about all you can do out here. I gotta say right now, I didn't feel one way or another about Frances. He had a big damn mouth and he messed himself up. I didn't see anything that day, and I don't know what happened, so don't ask me. I carry Sam's stuff around, so let's just leave it at that.

Yeah, Sam has pictures. Yeah, I knew you were gonna ask me that.

Let's see…Sam's got a picture of him and Dean and his Dad. That's the oldest one of the bunch. Sam couldn't have been more than four, maybe five. He's sitting on his Dad's lap, right next to his brother. They all look happy. Sounds weird, but it's true. You humans have your moments.

He's got two pics of that Jess girl. She's just standing there, smiling at the camera in the first one. The other photo looks weird to me. I think you humans call that day Halloween, am I right? Everybody but Sam is dressed funny. Jess is smiling and Sam isn't.

Sam pulls her photos out a couple of times a year. He looks sad enough on her birthday. On that other day? Well, he looks calm, but he's not fooling me or anyone else.

And he sure in the heck isn't fooling his brother.

Oh, and he's got a picture of Dean in there too. Kid's just sitting there staring at the camera smirking. The way I hear it, Sam doesn't like that picture. Not at all. Sometimes Dean goes missing, and that's the photo Sam uses to show other humans what Dean looks like, so I can see why Sam doesn't like that one. If I was him I'd lojack big bro' so he can keep track of him, but hey, that's just me. Probably wouldn't work anyway. You know how slippery these Winchesters are.

Did Sam name me? Nope. The folks in the trunk did. Before I was known as "Hey you." Then one morning Jerry, Tony and Dom called me "Wall-E" and the name stuck. Geez.


	47. Columbo

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

**_Chapter 47 - Columbo_**

I'm tan and I'm boring. I led a boring life.

I liked boring.

I'm a polyester blend. Easy keeper. Jimmy Novack bought me on sale (gee, what a surprise!) at Atkinson Brothers store one day. I was marked down. The way I remember it that summer was hot and dry. No rain. I was 59.99, marked down from 99.99.

Life was good for a while. Jimmy would wear me when he needed to, otherwise I'd hang quietly in his closet. I liked that.

And then Jimmy started praying to that God of his. He wanted to be of service. I had a really bad feeling about that.

The day he finally got what he wanted scared the hell out of me, pun intended. Not that there was that much hell in me in the first place. That angel showed up. That Castiel. Good thing I didn't have legs, because I would have run like hell. That probably wouldn't have done any good, either.

First time I saw that Dean Winchester, the bastard shot me. Repeatedly. You think that doesn't hurt? Think again. I was healed right after that, which was a surprise. I guess sporting multiple gunshot holes wouldn't be the right look for an angel of the Lord. Come to think of it, repairing bullet holes is about the only thing Castiel cares about. These days I'm rumpled. Wrinkled, even. Castiel doesn't care. I look like I should be in a thrift shop somewhere.

I miss my old life. I've seen things I never even imagined, things I definitely don't want to see, ever again.

I miss going to the office. I miss hanging out on the coat rack, listening to the hum of computers and the click of calculators. I was made for _that_, not _this_.

I met those barbarians in the trunk once. The ringleader? That Jerry? He took one look at me and yelled out, "Hey, it's Lieutenant Columbo!"

It's been downhill since then.

They all laugh at me every time I come around. I mean, I never gave it much thought before, but you would think being an article of clothing that belongs to an angel's vessel would bring automatic respect.

It doesn't.

Jimmy's black suit and I don't talk at all anymore. Well, we weren't that close before.

Have I mentioned I miss my old life?

I did? Oh.

* * *

Next: Dean's Amulet


	48. Dean's Amulet

**_Chapter 48 - Dean's Amulet_**

I was in born in fire in the old country. I changed hands many times since then, until I finally ended up at Singer Salvage in that place calledSouth Dakota. I was intended for the father, the oldestWinchester. According to Singer "that big idjit needs all the help and protection he can get."

The young one, Samuel, didn't give me to the father. He gave me to his older brother. I was bestowed with the best, the purest of intentions that night. I do my job gladly and willingly. I protect Dean Winchester's essence. I provide a barrier for his soul against the terrible things he hunts.

I listen to Dean's heartbeat. I feel his chest rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing. His soul shines brightly, even on the days in which he doubts himself. Those days are many, but he still carries on.

Sometimes Dean is injured, sometimes near death. It is all part of the plan. Even I can't see the entire tapestry, but I know it's there. Yes, I've heard it said by the beings in the trunk that I'm not doing my job. It appears that way sometimes.

I am content to let them think whatever they want to.

Did Dean name me? No.

Jerry calls me "Bullwinkle."


	49. Sam's lock pick set

_**A/N:**_ Cujo has branched off in her own continuing series, _Cujo Winchester Explains It All. _I never argue with a bossy little Manx cat.

_**Up now:**_ Sam's lock pick set

* * *

There are nine of us. Yeah, I'm the mouthy one. Funny how everybody else got shy all of a sudden. I'm a warded pick, otherwise known as a skeleton key. My little company includes two torsion wrenches, a hook pick, a half diamond pick (for steep angles), a snake rake pick, a half diamond pick (for shallow angles), a S-rake pick, a double round pick and a long double ended pick. Sounds like a lot, but you can never have enough when it comes to opening locks. Some folks can get by with five picks. Good for them.

We were brand new when we came into the Winchester family. We were glad to get out of that storeroom. Sitting around doing nothing was just plain dull.

You humans don't realize it, but we can tell a lot about you just from the touch. Sam's dad? He was scary. He was sad and mad all at the same time. He was afraid too. Afraid for his boys.

Turns out he had plenty to be afraid of.

I remember the day Sam's dad gave us to the kid.

"Here, Sam."

The kid unzipped the case and stared down at us. Then he sighed, long and heavy. Sam's skin felt like his dad's did. They were more alike than they realized.

"It's about time you learned." The father nodded at the other, older kid who stood nearby. "Dean'll teach you. Go out back and start practicing."

"I've…I've got homework to do," Sam stammered, like he knew whatever he said wasn't going to work, but he was going to say it anyway."

His pop shook his head. I got the feeling right then and there that this was the way it always went between those two. "Right now, Sam. I mean it."

The Dean kid reached out and took us out of Sam's hands. "C'mon Sammy. I'll show you." He was a little too quick about the whole thing, like he'd best get between the two of them before one of them exploded at the other.

Dean felt different. I couldn't read him at first, like everything was all pushed down deep beneath his skin. He had a light touch, though, I'll tell you that.

Between the nine of uis we can coax just about any lock open, but it all depends on the human. Dean has good hands. He worked the lock, and he grinned a little when the tumblers moved, then he nodded, like he was satisfied with us. I got the feeling the lock pick set before us was crap. We're good quality. The finest tempered steel.

Then it was Sam's turn.

Right then and there we figured this whole thing was something different. First off, what eight year old kid gets a lock pick set? And what kind of life does said kid have when his dad insists that the kid practice picking locks for hours?

My sisters and I were thrilled.

Sam wasn't. We could tell he hated using us the whole time he fiddled with the lock tumblers. Later on his father timed him. With a stop watch.

If he didn't get the lock open within sixty seconds that meant he'd have to practice over and over again. That didn't happen very often.

We don't care about getting to whatever's behind that door. The click of the lock as the tumblers give way? _That's_ the sound we love to hear. Sam picks locks like he was born to do the work, but he hates it. It's not what he wants in life. It's not normal, whatever _that_ is.

We've been with the kid longer than Frances was. Wasn't any need to brag about that. We get along pretty good with the folks in the trunk.

All those locks out there? They all open up, sooner than later, especially when Sam uses us. Lawyers' offices, auction houses, apartment buildings. Abandoned factories. You name it, we can get in.

Funny thing, though, when Sam got older, and he decided to ditch his brother and his Dad for a week, he took us with him. We came in handy. He had food and a roof over his head the whole time. I would have thought the dad and the brother wouldn't have been that upset. After all, he came back. Humans. Go figure.

When Sam left for Stanford he left us behind. Dean used us on jobs, which was fine by us. Dean taught Sam how to pick a lock, just like his Dad trained Dean. I'm pretty sure you humans weren't born knowing how to jimmy a lock.

When Sam and Dean hit the road again after Stanford, Dean quietly slipped us back into Sam's duffel. Next time he saw us, he didn't say a word. He's used us several times since then.

The skin never lies, and every time Sam picks us up we feel his sadness and rage. He never gave us names. We're just tools to him, nothing more, and we remind him of the hunting life he thought he'd left behind. That's okay.

No hard feelings.

* * *

Next post? Friday. Dean's wallet is next.


	50. Dean's wallet

Up now: Dean's wallet

* * *

I'm going to stop talking if I don't like the way this is going. You already talked to Sam's wallet. He's got a really big mouth. What's inside a person's wallet is personal and private.

So what else do you think a person carries around in there? Photos. Their family. Friends. People and places and things they care about. Like the one Sam found of that Cujo cat that one time. That's _all_ I'm saying.

You want details? Yeah, Jerry said you were nosy.

Sorry. What part of 'personal and private' didn't you understand?

No, Dean didn't name me. Makes me no difference one way or another. I know who and what I am and what my job is.

What's life with a hunter like? It's bad enough when the boys go undercover. Lord, then I have to listen to all the bragging those damn fake FBI and Homeland Security IDs do. Just because we're in separate wallets doesn't mean I don't hear all that crap. If the posers brag like that I can only imagine what being around genuine law tin is like.

It's a good thing the brothers don't impersonate Mulder and Scully all the time. It doesn't last long, and I'm always real glad about that. At least Dean changes up, switches IDs when he has to. I don't mind the driver's licenses and the credit cards. Me and the dead presidents get along just fine. I really like listening to the ones that Dean won at pool or poker. Damn, the stories some of them tell! There's a high turnover, y'understand, but I'm a good listener.

Sometimes that's_ not_ a good thing.

Bad enough I have to listen to those dumbass condoms talking about that waitress Dean uh, _met_ down in Tampa, Florida. That's _all_ you're gonna get outta me on THAT subject. It's ancient history. Time to move on, and I'm tired of hearing those latex chuckleheads yak about it. We all have a job to do out here. How about just shutting the hell up and _doing_ it? _That's_ a novel concept. Geez...

How do I feel about Sam? He's a brat. And nosy too. Keeps yammering about how Dean has to talk about his feelings. Around here the kid's nickname is Doctor Phil. He earned it.

Sometimes I feel like bitchslapping him.

Oh, don't look so shocked.

He's so prissy he gets on my nerves sometimes, but that's nothing out of the ordinary. That's what families do. We got that down to a science around here. Don't tell me you've never felt like punching out a relative or two.

Don't get me wrong, Sam's not as bad as Frances. The day that duffel bit the big one was a_ good_ day.

On that last hunt, when Dean got tagged by that fugly and face planted into that wall (I know, kid seems to do that a _lot_, doesn't he?) Sam picked me up when I fell out of Dean's pocket. That photo of the cat and John and Dean fell out too. Sam picked it up, then slipped me into his jacket pocket.

So he could get _nosy_ with me later on.

I heard part of the conversation. Sam asked Bobby about the cat. Bobby told him to ask Dean when Dean woke up.

Sam did. Made some remarks about "Hello Kitty." He was making fun, Dean was hurting and wasn't in the mood. The first thing out of big brother's mouth was "It's none of your damn business, Sam. She was here, and you weren't. You left Dad and me."

Naturally that wasn't what the kid wanted to hear. Got his feelings hurt. It was plenty tense around here for a while, but they got over it.

And no, they didn't hug each other.

Going through another man's wallet is like rifling through another woman's purse. Come on, you human females, be honest, would _you _like it if somebody went through _your_ purse?

Didn't think so.

I mean, look, these boys are on the road all the damn time, they're together 24/7. It's the Winchesters against the world, and yeah, I know everything that comes with that particular territory: Y_ou're my brother and I'll die for you_ and all that, but Dean's a private person, and that also means _keep your emo Sasquatch paws off my damn wallet, dude. _

Unless it's a matter of life and death.

A person needs space all their own. Dean might not admit that he needs it, but he does. A lot of stuff happened while Sam was away at college. I bet stuff happened to Sam, but I don't see him breaking his neck sharing and caring.

That better be the last time Dr. Phil pulls that crap. Otherwise, I'll call in a favor from some of the folks in the trunk.

TBC


	51. When Good Sockpuppets Go Bad

_**Dedicated to: **_deannaG and LisaJ. Your wish is my command.

_**Summary:**_ Mr. Fizzles realizes that there comes a time when even a sockpuppet must take matters into its own hand.

* * *

Everyone thought I was possessed.

I wasn't.

If I were human, you'd probably say that I snapped. That I finally went postal on his creepy, pasty-faced ass. Well, I did go medieval on him. But I didn't snap. The way I felt had been building up for months. I saw my chance and I took it. There's a big difference.

April 16th was the day I finally got free of Garth Fitzgerald IV.

We were in this little town named Ainsley, Connecticut. Same shit, different day in the life of a hunter. People were dying horribly and the survivors weren't talking. The only thing different about this was the Winchesters were in town, and somehow we all ended up working the case together.

Garth pulled me out of his pocket and slipped me on. Dean rolled his eyes, shook his head. Sam tried not to stare. He very pointedly stared at the faded floral wallpaper on the walls, looked anywhere but directly at me.

That made me finally realize something I didn't want to face all along. I was a joke. Always was, always would be, now and forever, amen.

Because of _him_.

Garth wriggled his fingers inside me. He turned me around to face him, opened and closed my mouth several times, like I was making kissy faces at him.

I'd finally had enough. I couldn't take this life anymore.

I felt funny all over, pumped up, like something swelled up inside my fabric, filling me up from toe to hem. Garth's arm was inside me, but this wasn't the same, not like before. His whole hand, from his fingers, his wrist, all the way down to his elbow, belonged to me now.

I was in control.

I raised Garth's arm, turned my head around so we were nose to nose. He had this puzzled look on his stupid face, like he couldn't understand what was happening.

I grinned at him. "Hi. I'm Mr. Fizzles." I put everything I had into that damn southern twang. I hated that too. First and last time I used it myself. Last time pays for all.

"You know what? I'm _really_ sick of your ass." Damn, it felt good to finally be able to say that out loud.

Dean looked interested all of a sudden. He nudged his brother with his elbow. "Huh. The sock speaks truth," he drawled. "Nice. Welcome to our world."

Sam shrugged. They both watched us, but I blocked the view of dummy's face. They couldn't see that Garth's lips weren't moving.

Garth's eyes widened. "Uh…g-g-guys? N-need a little help here-"

The Winchesters weren't slouches at hunting. I'd heard a lot about them. I had to be quick about this, and I was.

I folded myself into a fist, and I hit Garth right in the face.

He staggered backwards, towards the door.

Perfect.

"Why do you keep hitting yourself?" I yelled. I hit him again. "Why do you keep hitting yourself?"

"Hey!" Dean roared. He and his brother were already up and off the couch, but it was too late. Garth stumble-stepped backwards through the door. I reached out, grabbed the doorknob, slammed it shut and locked it.

Garth lost his balance and hit the floor on his back.

I knew I didn't have much time. The brothers had guns.

Garth and I were nose to nose. The voice that came out of me then was rougher and deeper. It was MY voice. My _true_ voice. "Remember the times I disappeared? You found me each time, right? Thought it was the sock fairy? Brownies?" I shook my head. "You fleshies are so damn stupid. It was me. _Just me_. I tried to get away. I did. _THIS IS ALL YOUR DAMN FAULT!_"

The door behind us shook. We'd have company any moment now.

"I thought you were my friend." Garth whimpered. "We did good work together. We helped people-"

I laughed. "And now I'm gonna help myself."

I never forgot the way my fabric hurt when Garth sewed the yarn for hair and the buttons for eyes on me. Needles hurt like hell, you know? Remember that the next time you decide to stick pins and needles into something.

My mouth felt funny, but I didn't have to see to know what was happening. People change. Everything does, sooner or later, and so did I.

I opened my mouth wide. Garth's eyes got even wider.

I bared my teeth at him. "All those times you hunted things? I kept hoping you'd get killed. But you didn't." I nipped at the tip of his nose. "I shoulda known better. Never send a fugly to do a sock's job."

The door flew open behind us, but it was too late. Garth screamed like a girl, but he didn't scream for long.

* * *

Now I suppose some of you meatsacks reading this think I'm bitching about nothing, right? "Why is he complaining? He did good work. He helped people. That's a good thing."

Wrong. It isn't. I hated every moment of it. I was his sockpuppet. Everything I said or did came from him. How would you like living like that?

Uh huh. Didn't think so.

The end's here, though, and it's not so bad. Not bad at all. Salt and burn, baby, and I'm finally, totally _free_. I can't feel the flames, but I'm feeling downright happy for the first time in a long time. Animals go to that Rainbow Bridge. You fleshies have Heaven and Hell.

I'm going home. Sock Heaven, here I come.

-30-


End file.
